But Lucy made no reply.
"I see. It is what you cannot speak of."
"It is what I can never speak of to you or to any one, Margaret. But oh, it is hard to bear."
"It seems so to you, I am sure, whatever it may be. But in the very darkest trial and sorrow there is comfort to be found."
"Not for me," impetuously answered Lucy. "I think God has forgotten me."
"Lucy, hush! You know better. The darkest cloud ever o'ershadowing the earth, covers a bright sky. We see only the cloud, but the brightness is behind it; in time it will surely show itself and the cloud will have rolled away. God is above all. Only put your trust in Him."
Lucy was silent. There are times when the heart is so depressed that it admits not of comfort; when even sympathy cannot touch it. She bent her face in her hands and thought. Look out where she would, there seemed no refuge for her in the wide world. Her duty and the ills of life laid upon her seemed to be clashing with each other. Margaret had preached to her of patiently bearing, of resignation to Heaven's will, of striving to live on, silently hoping, and returning good for evil. But there were moments when the opposite course looked very sweet, and this moment was one. But one thought always held her back when this retaliation, this revenge appeared most tempting--should she not repent of it in the future?
"Lucy, my dear," broke in the invalid's voice, always so plaintive, "I do not pretend to fathom this trouble of yours. It is beyond me.
I can only think it must be some difference between you and your husband----"
"And if it were?" interrupted Lucy, recklessly.
"If it were! Why then, I should say to you, above all things, bear. You do not know, you cannot possess 'any idea of the bitter life Of a woman at real issue with her husband. I know a lady--but she does not live in these parts, and you have never heard of her--who separated from her husband. She and my own mother were at school together, and she married young and, it was thought, happily. After a time she grew jealous of her husband; she had cause for it: he was altogether a gay, careless man, fond of show and pleasure. For some years she bore a great deal in silence, the world knowing nothing of things being wrong between them. Papa could tell you more about this time than I: I was but a little child. How he and my mother, the only friends who were in her confidence, urged her to go on bearing with what patience she might, and trusting to God to set wrong things right. For a long while she listened to them; but there came a time when she allowed exasperation to get the better of her; and the world was astonished by hearing that she and her husband had agreed to separate. Ah Lucy! it was then that her life of real anguish set in. Just at first, for a few weeks or so, perhaps months, she was borne up by the excitement of the thing, by the noise it made in the world, by the gratification of taking revenge on her husband--by I know not what. But as the long months and the years went on, and all excitement, I may almost say all interest in life, had faded, she then saw what she had done. She was a solitary woman condemned to an unloved and solitary existence, and she repented her act with the whole force of her bitter and lonely heart. Better, Lucy, that she had exercised patience, and trusted in God; better for her own happiness."