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Just before it grew too dark for them to see her, she beckoned to Claude to approach, and as he stood beside her couch, she laid Marguerite's hand in his, smiled peacefully as she felt the strong grasp close above it, and, closing her eyes, with head turned a little aside, she passed away so tranquilly that they could not have told when her last breath was drawn.
"Yours is so, too, Marguerite, and yet I did not perceive that you allowed yourself to be overcome by grief when your heart was wounded." These words were in direct allusion to Marguerite's rupture with the superintendent, and were also a veiled but direct reproach made against her friend's heart.
"Oh, I wish girls did not have to grow up so fast. Think how soon they will be sixteen," bemoaned the mother. "I kept another birthday," said Marguerite. "I am glad to go back even the few months." "You look as if you were beginning to feel at home," said her father. "Oh, I hope we shall have many, many happy years together." Marguerite's heart was too full to reply.
Although Julio was waxing impatient with the annoyance of this wandering love affair which only amounted to a few fugitive kisses, he finally held his peace, dominated by Marguerite's pleadings. She did not wish merely to be one in the procession of his sweethearts; it was necessary to convince herself first that this love was going to last forever.
"My God!" he cried in agony; "are you the only one who believes in my innocence?" "Without proofs yes. It must be your task to obtain these proofs." "And I shall obtain them," he rejoined, in a tone of determination. "I am strong now that I have Marguerite's life to defend for they have deceived her, mother, or she would never have given me up. Oh! don't shake your head.
Under them was the strength of rocks; around them the noiseless growth of needful things; above them the upward-drawing light: two working children of the New World, two pieces of Nature's quietism. It was the second morning after Marguerite's ball. Marguerite, to herself a girl no longer, lay in the middle of a great, fragrant, drowsy bed of carved walnut, once her grandmother's.
At that moment Phillip Lawson was thinking over a host of compliments, which if repeated would have caused Marguerite Verne's spirituelle face to glow with maiden blushes. But let us believe "One truth is dear, whatever is, is right," and leave each to the free range of thought indulged in at the self-same moment. The lovely views of nature on this lonely morn soon claimed Marguerite's attention.
Marguerite's delicate cream-colored morning robe is also relieved by the shades of garnet worn by the others. Much real happiness is exhibited as one looks upon every countenance within the radius of her smiles. No jealousy lurks upon the brow of any. Thrice happy Marguerite! The secret of making others happy lies within the confines of your own unselfish nature!
She stood in the darkness, in a white robe de nuit, like a ghost. "Now, monsieur," she whispered. I stepped forth without a word, and followed her through the cabinet into a chamber which also dark. Three of Marguerite's maids stood there, in silence, one near the door, the other two at the window.
From these far-reaching thoughts my mind was drawn sharply back to the fact of my presence in Marguerite's apartment and the realization that she would shortly return to find me there alone. I resented the fact that the old doctor and the young woman could conspire to place me in such a situation.
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