“Please don’t make any attempt to talk to me, Mrs. Burton. I understand that you would prefer to enjoy the beauty about us in silence and I think I should also.”
So at first Mrs. Burton made no effort to talk, having many things to occupy her thoughts beside her own personal concerns.
In the past few weeks it had appeared as if the peace o’ the world, which was to be wrought out in France was again endangered, not only by Germany’s bluster, but by a misunderstanding between France and the United States. But today the news in the papers was again reassuring. Mrs. Burton was thinking that perhaps after all the details of peace might be arranged before she sailed for England, when hearing an unexpected sound, she turned toward her companion. The sound had been a little like a hastily swallowed sob.
Marguerite Arnot’s eyes were full of tears.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Burton,” she apologized, “Really there isn’t anything in the world that specially troubles me. I think it is the loveliness of this little garden that has made me emotional. I was thinking of a queer jumble of things, of the fact that the woman for whom this garden was created was executed, and then of myself, an odd combination I appreciate. I was recalling Miss Lord’s kindness to me and how much I have enjoyed the past weeks with her. And then I was sorry that the house in Versailles is soon to be closed and Miss Lord to return to southern France and her reclamation work. I confess I rather dread going back to my former life in Paris. As I have lost my old position it may be difficult for me to find enough sewing to keep me busy now that so many people are in mourning.”
In a moment forgotten was the garden and the world struggle for peace as Mrs. Burton, womanlike, became absorbed in the individual personal problem of the girl beside her. Forgotten also was her own impression that Marguerite was not interesting and might therefore bore her.
Here was a girl who had her own way to make and was bravely setting about the task. There was no other human situation which interested Mrs. Burton one half so much, or gave her the same instinctive desire to be of service. And this was not only her instinct, but a part of her long Camp Fire training, first as a Camp Fire girl and later as a guardian.
“But you are not to trouble about your future, Marguerite,” she argued, although a few moments before no such idea had entered her mind. “For one thing you may always count on the fact that Aunt Patricia never under any possible circumstances deserts a friend. Besides, Bettina Graham has a plan in mind which she has suggested to me and concerning which she has written her mother. So far she has received no answer, but afterwards I know she wishes to talk of it with you. Do you see Bettina and Mr. Hale? I don’t wish them to forget where to look for us.”
A little farther along, near the labyrinth where Bettina had once lost her way during her first evening alone in the secret garden, Mrs. Burton and Marguerite at this instant saw the blue of Bettina’s dress shining between the green leaves of the intervening foliage. Standing over her and looking down upon her was David Hale.
Mrs. Burton also became aware of the fact that Marguerite Arnot immediately colored and glanced away. Her sympathy of a few moments before was now doubled.