But in the halls of Earl Hubert at Westminster, all interest in outside calamities was lost in the inside. As that spring drew on towards summer, the blindest eyes could no longer refuse to see that the white lily had faded at last, and the star was going out.
The trial of patience had been long for Margaret but it was over now.
Master Aristoteles could not understand it. The maiden had no disease that he could discover: and to think that the blessed hair of Saint Dominic should have failed to restore her! It was most unaccountable.
There was no word of complaint from the dying girl. She no longer thought it strange that God should have made her young life short and bitter. The lesson was learned, at last.
So gradually her life went out, that no one expected the end just when it came. Weaker and weaker she grew from day to day; more unable to sit up, to work, to talk: but the transition from life to death was so quiet that it was difficult for those around to realise how near it was.
Margaret had risen and dressed every day, but had lain outside her bed when dressed, for the greater part of April. It was May Day now, and in all the streets were May-poles and May dancers, singing and sunshine.
Eva went out early, with a staff of attendants, to join in the festivities.
“Why, what good can there be in my staying at home?” she said, answering Doucebelle’s face. “Margaret will not be any better because I am here. And then, when I come in at night, I can tell her all about it. And it is no use talking, Doucebelle! I really cannot bear this sort of thing! I get so melancholy, you have no idea! I don’t know what would become of me if I had not some diversion.”
Beatrice and Doucebelle stayed with Margaret: Doucebelle from a sort of inward sensation, she hardly knew what or why; Beatrice from a remark made by Bruno the night before.
“It will not be long, now, at least,” he had said.