“She came back this morning.”
“And what does the unfortunate girl say?”
“Like your prisoner, she refuses to affirm or deny anything.”
“Mr. Wellworth,” said Colonel Houston, “we have decided to speak no more upon the subject with Miss Helmstedt, but to leave matters as they are until the return of her father, who is daily expected.”
“I think, under the circumstances, that that is as well,” replied the old man. And soon after, he concluded his visit and departed.
And as the subject was no more mentioned to Margaret, she remained in ignorance of the visit of Mr. Wellworth.
And from this time Margaret Helmstedt kept her own apartments, except when forced to join the family at their meals. And upon these occasions, the silence of the ladies, and the half compassionate courtesy of Colonel Houston, wounded her heart more deeply than the most bitter reproaches could have done.
A week passed in this dreary manner, and still Major Helmstedt and Captain Houston had not returned, though they were as yet daily expected.
Margaret, lonely, desolate, craving companionship and sympathy, one day ordered her carriage and drove up to the parsonage to see Grace Wellworth. She was shown into the little sitting-room where the parson’s daughter sat sewing.
Grace arose to meet her friend with a constrained civility that cut Margaret to the heart. She could not associate her coldness with the calumnious reports afloat concerning herself, and therefore could not comprehend it.