are say, many of
them. What was there in this to touch a woman of fashion, sitting there
crying in her corner? Was it because they were children's voices, and
innocent? Margaret did not care to check her tears. She was thinking of
her old home, of her own childhood, nay, of her girlhood--it was not so
long ago--of her ideals then, of her notion of the world and what it
would bring her, of the dear, affectionate life, the simple life, the
school, the little church, her room in the cottage--the chamber where
first the realization of love came to her with the odors of May. Was it
gone, that life?--gone or going out of her heart? And--great heavens!
--if her husband should be cold to her! Was she very worldly? Would he
love her if she were as unworldly as she once was? Why should this
childish singing raise these contrasts, and put her at odds so with her
own life? For a moment I doubt not this dear girl saw herself as we were
beginning to see her. Who says that the rich and the prosperous and the
successful do not need pity?

Was this a comforting hour, do you think, for Margaret in the cathedral?
Did she get any strength, I wonder? When the singing was over and the
organ ceased, and the children had filed out, she stole away also,
wearily and humbly enough, and took the stage down the avenue. It was
near the dinner-hour, and Henderson, if he came, would be at home any
moment. It seemed as if she could not wait--only to see him!

XVIII

Do you suppose that Henderson had never spoken impatiently and sharply to
his wife before, that Margaret had never resented it and replied with
spirit, and been hurt and grieved, and that there had never been
reconciliations? In writing any biography there are some things that are
taken for granted with an intelligent public. Are men always gentle and
considerate, and women always even-tempered and consistent, simply by
virtue of a few words said to the priest?

But this was a more serious affair. Margaret waited in a tumult of
emotion. She felt that she would die if she did not see him soon, and she
dreaded his coming. A horrible suspicion had entered her mind that
respect for her husband, confidence in him, might be lowered, and a more
horrible doubt that she might lose his love. That she could not bear. And
was Henderson unconscious of all this? I dare say that in the perplexing
excitement of the day he did recall for a moment with a keen thrust of
regret the scene of the morni