And like a carpet lay."
Thus passed Nature's shifting panorama which waits no man's pleasure, stops for none, but brings all to an end at last.
To Margaret they had been months of sore trial,—of hope deferred and the suspense that kills,—the rising up each day to meet the mute sympathy of real friends, and the thin-veiled curiosity of those called friends by courtesy, who made her rage within herself and left her powerless to resent. Then there was that other sort who came to her, prating of sympathy, but telling her always of what others said. The words of a talebearer are as wounds; these went down into the innermost parts of Margaret's soul.
But through it all she carried herself with a dignity and poise that enforced respect and in time silenced even gossip. To all these invitations to confidence she made no response. She could not stop people's tongues, but she would give them no occasion to wag, by any word of hers. This thing had been between her and her husband; there it should remain. So when Marie Van Dorn came, saying effusively, "You poor child, I have heard, and came to you as soon as the nurse would let me. You can trust me, my dear!" Margaret had replied, quietly:
"Thank you. You are very kind to come to see me. I shall be a good deal housed for a while, and rather lonely in Mr. De Jarnette's absence. What do you hear from your aunt?" And Marie had made but a short call.
To Judge Kirtley, who had come as soon as she could see him, she had said, her eyes heavy with unshed tears,
"I would trust you beyond any living soul. But this is not a thing about which even you could help me. I need not tell you there is something wrong—you know that. It may come right—I can not tell. If it does, I should be sorry I had talked. If it does not, the case would not be helped by words. I cannot take the world into my confidence. Do you blame me?"
"No, dear child," he said, with an aching of his great heart, "I honor you. If more women took this stand there would be fewer cases of domestic trouble in the courts. Keep your own counsel. But when you need me, speak."
To his wife that night he said, "Margaret is a rare woman. Not one in a hundred at her age would see this as she does, and have the strength of character to lock everything in her own breast."
"Well, for my part," replied Mrs. Kirtley, who felt aggrieved at Margaret's want of confidence, "I think she is too close-mouthed. It would relieve her mind to talk to some safe confidant."