She liked to lie there, watching the sun, listening to the drip, her letters unopened, her breakfast untouched. She was delightfully empty of thoughts. But one idea lay in her mind,—she should stay on, here, just here. Since she had packed her trunk the Sunday before, a great deal seemed to have happened,—a space had been placed between the outer world that she had restlessly turned back towards and herself. Some day she should go back to that other world—to Molly and John and all the rest. But not now—no!…
As she lay there, slowly the little things of the past weeks since she had travelled the cold road from White River—the impressions, the sights, the ideas—settled into her thought, pushing back the obstinate obsessions that had possessed her for months. The present began to be important, to drive out the past. Outside in the street some one whistled, the bells of the passing sleds jangled, a boy's treble halloa sounded far away,—unconscious voices of the living world, like the floating clouds, the noise of running water, the drip of the melting snow on the eaves,—so good it all was and real! …
Margaret had found that Peace the doctor had spoken of, Margaret whose delicate curving lips had always seemed to her the symbol of discontent, of the inadequacy of life. Margaret had found it, and why not she? … That explained the difference she felt these days in Margaret. There had always been something fine and sweet in the Southern woman, something sympathetic in her touch, in the tone of her voice even when she said cynical things. Now Margaret never said bitter things, even about the wretched Larry. She had always been a listener rather than a talker, but now there was a balm in her very presence, a touch upon the spirit, like a cool hand on the brow. Yes! She had found that rightful heritage of Peace and breathed it all around her, like warmth and light.
Margaret came in with the noon mail, which she had collected from the box in the post-office. As she tossed the papers and letters on the bed, Isabelle noticed another of the oblong letters in the familiar handwriting from Panama….
"Or is it that?" she asked herself for a moment, and then was ashamed. The smile, the clear look out of the deep eyes, the caressing hand that stroked her face, all said no,—it was not that! And if it were, it must be good.
"So you are going to stay with us a while longer, Isabelle…. I shall unpack your trunk and hide it," Margaret said with smiling conviction.
"Yes,—I shall stay, for the present…. Now I must get into my clothes.
I've been lazing away the whole morning here—not even reading my letters!"
"That's right," Margaret drawled. "Doing nothing is splendid for the temperament. That's why the darkies have such delightful natures. They can sit whole days in the sun and never think a thought." With her hand on the door she turned: "You must send for Molly,—it will be good for her to forget the dancing lessons and frocks. My children will take her down to Mill Hill and make a boy of her."
"Well,—but she will be a nuisance, I am afraid. She is such a young lady."…
At last Isabelle tore open a letter from her husband, one that Margaret had just brought. It was concise and dry, in the economical epistolary style into which they had dropped with each other. He was glad to hear that her rest in the country was doing her good. If it agreed with her and she was content, she had better stay on for the present. He should be detained in the West longer than he had expected. There were important suits coming on against the railroad in which he should be needed, hearings, etc. At the close there was an unusually passionate sentence or two about "the public unrest and suspicion," and the President and the newspapers. "They seem to like the smell of filth so much that they make a supply when they can't find any."