Chapter Nineteen.
A Telegram.
It was a very shamefaced Margot who made her appearance at the dinner-table that evening; but, to her unspeakable relief, she found that there was no cause for embarrassment. Instead of the meaning glances and joking remarks which she had dreaded, she was greeted with the ordinary kindly prosaic welcome, and not even Mrs Macalister herself ventured an innuendo. The Chieftain was the only one who alluded to the non-appearance of the searchers, and the manner in which he did so was a triumph of the commonplace.
“Muddled up that hide-and-seek finely, didn’t we?” he cried cheerily. “Afraid you had all your trouble for nothing. I happened to catch a glimpse of you heading off in the wrong direction, so turned into ‘It’ myself, and rooted them all out of their lairs. Then we played some sensible, middle-aged, sitting-down games, and strolled home in time for a siesta before dinner. Very good picnic, I call it. Great success! We’ll have another, one of these fine days.”
“’Deed yes, and we will!” assented Mrs Macalister genially. “It stirs a body up to have an outing now and then. I was thinking, why shouldn’t we drive over to B— and see the old castle and all the sights? I’ve been hankering to go ever since we arrived; but it mounts up when you drive about by yourselves. If we shared two carriages between us, it would make all the difference, and it seems foolish-like to be in a neighbourhood and not see what there is to be seen. You can get carriages from Rew, they tell me, if you order them a day or two before.”
To the amazement of the company, it was George Elgood of all others who hastened to second the proposal.
“A capital idea!” he cried. “B— is one of the finest old ruins in Scotland. Of course we must go; it would be worse than foolish to go home without seeing it. I have been before, so I could act as guide, and those who possess cameras had better take them also, as the place is rich in subjects.”
The clergyman and his son pricked up their ears at this, photography being with them only a degree less absorbing a pastime than that of walking; Ron awoke suddenly to the remembrance that his half-plate camera had never been unpacked since his arrival; and the three vied with each other in asking questions about the proposed excursion, and in urging that a date should be fixed. Before the meal had come to a conclusion, plans were mapped out, and a division of labour made, by which one person was held responsible for the hiring of carriages, another for the promised food, while George Elgood was left to arrange the plan of campaign.
“We are a happy family, we are, we are, we are!” hummed the Chieftain, under his breath, as he cast a twinkling glance across the table to where Margot sat, as demure to outward seeming as she was excited at heart.
“Why do you avoid me?” he demanded of her plumply, the next morning, when, after several unsuccessful attempts, he ran her to earth by the side of the tarn. “Scurry out of my way like a frightened bunny whenever I come along. Won’t do, you know! Not going to trouble myself to do you good turns, if you round on me afterwards, and avoid me as if I were the plague. What’s it all about?”
“Nothing,” stammered Margot confusedly. “I only felt rather— You do tease, you know, and your eyes twinkle so mischievously that I felt that discretion was the better part of valour.”
“Well, don’t do it again then, that’s all, or I may turn rusty and upset the apple-cart. No reason that I know of why I should be ostracised, because I try to help my fellow-creatures. What are you doing over here? Reading? What a waste of time! Much better come and chuck stones into the lake with me.”
Margot’s brown eyes widened in reproof.
“Don’t you like books?”
“Hate the sight of ’em! Especially on a holiday. Never want to see as much as a line of print from the time I leave home to the time I return. Especially,”—his eyes twinkled in the mischievous manner to which exception had just been taken—“especially poetry! Don’t mind my saying so, do you?”
“Not a bit,” returned Margot promptly, tossing her first stone into the lake with a vehemence which held more than a suspicion of temper. “Of course I never—one would never—expect you to like it. It would be the last thing one would expect—”
“Too fat?”
She blushed at that, and had the grace to look a trifle distressed.
“Oh, not that altogether. It’s a ‘Je ne sais quoi,’ don’t you know. One could tell at a glance that you were not a literary man.”
The Chieftain chuckled, bent down to gather a handful of stones, and raised a red smiling face to hers.
“Well, well, we can’t all be geniuses, you know! One in a glen is about as much as you can expect to meet in these hard times. But I can chuck stones with the best of ’em. That one was a good dozen yards beyond your last throw. Put your back into it, and see what you can do. It’s a capital way of letting off steam.”
Margot was tempted to protest against the accusation, but reflection prompted silence, since after all she was cross, and there was no denying it.
She took the little man’s advice, and “let off steam” by the vigour and determination with which she hurled pebbles into the lake, making them skim along the surface in professional manner for an ever longer and longer space before finally disappearing from sight.
The Chieftain cheered her on with example and precept, and, as usual, irritation died a speedy death in the presence of his bright, cheery personality. While they were still laughing and cheering each other on to fresh exploits, a lad from the post office passed along the road, and the Chieftain wheeled round to call out the usual question—
“Anything for me? Is the post in already?”
The lad shook his head. He was a red-headed sociable-looking creature who seemed only too glad to enliven his walk by a chat en route. His teeth showed in a cheerful smile as he replied—
“The post willna be here for an hour or mair. It’s just a telegram!”
A telegram! It said much for the peaceful seclusion of the Glen that the very sound of the word brought a chill of apprehension to the listening ears. No one received telegrams at the Nag’s Head. One and all the visitors had sojourned thither with the aim of getting away as far as possible from the world of telegrams, and electric trams, and tube railways, and all the nerve-shattering inventions of modern life. Their ambition was to outlive the sense of hurry; to forget that such a thing as hurry existed, and browse along in peaceful uninterrupted ease.
To-day, however, in that far-away world beyond the heather-clad mountains something must have happened of such importance to some member of the little party that it could not wait for the leisurely medium of the post, but for good or ill had demanded instant attention.
Margot and the Chieftain stood in silence for a moment before he asked the second question.
“Who is it for?—What’s the name?”
“Macalister!”
The name was pronounced with the lengthy drawl to which the hearers were growing familiar. They looked at each other with sighs of relief, followed swiftly by contrition.
“I hope nothing is wrong! I hope it’s not bad news. Poor Mr Macalister’s ‘nearves’!”
“No, no! Nothing of the sort. Why imagine evil? Always look at the bright side as long as you can. Take for granted that it is good news, splendid news—the news he would like most to hear. Cut along, laddie! People pay for telegrams with the intention of getting them to their destination as quickly as possible. We’ll defer the pleasure of a conversation to our next merry meeting.”
The red-headed one grinned complacently and continued on his way, whistling as he went. There was about him no suggestion of a harbinger of bad tidings; the sun shone from a cloudless sky, and awoke sparkling reflections in the water; the scene was one of unbroken peace and happiness, and yet, and yet,—some shadow seemed to have fallen on Margot’s soul, so that she could no longer take any interest in the mere throwing of stones. Her heart followed the footsteps of the messenger down the winding path, and stood still as he entered the inn.
“What is it, little girl? You look as if you had seen a ghost!”
The Chieftain stood observing her with an expression of kindly concern, for the pretty face had turned white beneath its tan, and the brown eyes were wide and tense, as if beholding something hidden from ordinary gaze. She gazed fixedly, not back in his face, but past him down the lane towards the inn.
“I’m—afraid! I feel it is not good news. It means trouble—big trouble! It is hanging over me like a cloud!”
He looked at her swiftly, and his face changed.
“Come then,” he said quietly, “we will go back. If it is trouble, we may be able to help. I never ignore presentiments; they are sent to us all from time to time, and if we are faithful we obey them, like a summons. One came to me years ago. It was late at night, and I was just off to bed, when suddenly it came—the remembrance of a friend far off; the insistent remembrance; the certainty that he needed me, and that I must hasten to help. By all the laws of common sense I should have shrugged my shoulders and gone to sleep; but what are we, to judge by our own poor knowledge the great unknown forces of God? I went out there and then, caught a midnight train, and was at his house by seven in the morning. His wife met me on the stair and said, ‘How did you know?’ ... He lay dying in his bed, and all that night he had been calling for me. There was something I could do for him, better than any one else. He wished to place it in my hands before he went, and God had mercifully provided the opportunity. Never say that anything is impossible in this world, little girl! According to your faith so shall it be unto you.”
Margot did not answer except by a faint, strained smile. Her eyes were fixed upon the doorway of the inn, waiting for the reappearance of the messenger, but he did not come, and the delay lent weight to her apprehension.
They spoke no more, but walked silently side by side, until they drew near to the inn, when suddenly the silence of the Glen was broken by a strange, unaccustomed sound. What was it? Whence did it come? From some animal surely; some animal in pain or fear, piteously making known its needs! It could not be the moan of human woe! Yet even as she passionately denied the thought, Margot recognised in her heart that it was true, and darting quickly forward made her way into the inn parlour. The messenger still stood outside the door, waiting in stolid patience for instructions, and by his side was Mrs McNab, wiping floury hands in her apron, in evident perturbation of spirit.
On the plush-bedecked sofa in the corner of the parlour the half-inanimate form of Mrs Macalister swayed helplessly to and fro, while on either side stood two men—her husband and George Elgood—looking on in helpless, masculine fashion. Her cap had fallen back from her head, her ruddy face was bleached to a livid grey, from her lips came from time to time that pitiful, hopeless wail. At first it seemed to have no definite sound, but as one listened it took to itself words,—always the same words, repeated again and again—
“My lassie! My Lizzie! Oh, my lassie!”
“Nay, dearie, nay! You mustna give way. She’s better off. You must be strong. We’ll bear it together.”
It was Mr Macalister who spoke; but Margot hardly recognised the voice, hardly recognised the face, which, for all its pallor and quiver of pain, was yet strong and calm. All trace of the peevish discontent that had hung like a cloud over the man had vanished like a mist; his bowed back seemed to have straightened itself and grown erect; the whining voice was composed and full of courage. He had forgotten his nerves in the presence of a great calamity; nay, more than that—he had forgotten himself; his one care and anxiety was for his wife!
The tears smarted in Margot’s eyes; she ran forward, dropped on her knees before the chair, and clasped her strong young arms round the swaying figure, steadying it with loving, gentle pressure. The wan eyes stared at her unrecognisingly for a moment, then, at the sight of her girlish beauty, old memories returned, and the tears began to rain.
“Lizzie’s gone! Lizzie’s gone! I’ll never see her again. All in a moment, and me so far away. My little Lizzie!... I canna bear it!...”
“She never suffered, mother. She knew nothing about it. It’s better for her than a long, painful illness. You must be thankful for her sake.” Mr Macalister looked down at Margot, and bravely essayed an explanation. “It was an accident. We’ve just heard. Instantaneous, they say. The mother’s sore upset, but she’s a brave woman. She’ll bear it bravely for all our sakes. We’ll need to get back to Glasgow.”
“Yes. I’ll help! I’ll pack for her. Don’t trouble about anything. I’ll see that it is all right. You’ll let me help you, dear, won’t you?” Margot put up a tender hand, to straighten the cap on the poor, dishevelled head; and something in the simple, daughterly action seemed to reach the poor woman’s heart, and bring with it the first touch of calmness. She sat up and looked blankly from side to side.
“I—I’m sorry! I shouldna give way. I never lost a child before, you see, and Lizzie was such a one for her mother. I wrote to her only last night. She leaves two bairnies of her own, but they are so young. They’ll never remember her!” The pitiful trembling began again, whereupon George Elgood’s hand held out a glass of water, and Margot took it from him to lift it to the quivering lips.
“They will need you all the more, and you must be strong for their sakes. That’s what she would wish, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes. I must take care of the children. And Fred—poor Fred! but he hasn’t loved her as I have done for nearly thirty years. Father, when can we get back?”
“I’ll see, my dearie. I’ll see! Leave all to me. I’ll settle it all, and this good lassie will pack your things. Ye need trouble for nothing, my lass,—ye need trouble for nothing.”
He laid his broad hand on his wife’s shoulder with a gesture infinitely tender, then turned and went stumbling out of the room, while Margot’s eyes met the tear-drenched ones above her with a flash of enthusiasm.
“He is—splendid!”
Even at that moment Mrs Macalister showed a faint kindling of response.
“Didn’t I tell ye? When a man’s out of health ye canna judge. When he’s in his usual, there’s no one to touch Mr Macalister.”
With an instinctive movement Margot turned her head upward till her eyes met those of George Elgood, and exchanged a flash of mutual understanding. It heartened her like a drink of water in a thirsty land, for underlying the pity and the kindliness she recognised something else; something that existed for herself alone, and which seemed to bring with it an electric thrill of happiness.
Outside in the “lobby” the Chieftain was looking up trains in his own Bradshaw, and arranging with Mrs McNab for the long drive to the station, while Mr Macalister was writing out a return message with trembling fingers.
“Come upstairs with me, dear!” said Margot gently. “You shall lie on the bed while I do the packing. It’s a long journey, and you must be as fresh as possible when you arrive. They will be waiting for you, you know, and expecting you to comfort them. You have told me how they all rely upon you. You wouldn’t like to fail just when they need you most!”
Mrs Macalister raised herself feebly from her chair, but her poor face quivered helplessly.
“I’m a broken reed for any one to lean on. I can only remember that Lizzie’s gone. There’s no strength left in me. She was the flower of the flock. And me so far away!”
For the next hour the poor woman lay on the bed in her room, now sobbing in helpless paroxysms of grief, now relating pitiful, commonplace anecdotes of the dead daughter so dearly beloved, a dazed helpless creature, unable to do a hand’s turn for herself, while her husband crept in and out, quiet, resourceful, comforting, full of unselfish compassion. Margot had hard work to keep back her own tears, as he clumsily pressed his own services upon her, picking up odd garments, folding them carefully in the wrong way, and rummaging awkwardly through the drawers.
The trap was to be ready to start by twelve o’clock, and ten minutes before the time Margot carried a sponge and basin of water to the bedside, bathed the poor, tear-stained face, brushed the straggling locks of grey hair, and helped to fasten bonnet and cloak. It was pathetic to see the helplessness into which grief had stricken this capable, bustling woman. She lifted her chin, to allow the strings of her bonnet to be tied by Margot’s hands, and sat meekly while the “dolman” was hooked. It was like dressing a big docile baby; like a child, too, the manner in which she clung to her husband’s arm down the narrow stair.
Mrs McNab was standing below in the lobby, her hard face flushed to an unnatural red. She held a basket in her hand filled with dainty paper packages containing fruit, sandwiches, and cakes. Unable to voice her sympathy, she had put it into deeds, striving to ensure some comfort for the long journey ahead.
Mrs Macalister smiled a pitiful travesty of a smile in acknowledgment, and her friends pressed her hand, mercifully refraining from speech. When it came to parting from Margot, however, that was a different matter. Mrs Macalister stooped from the seat of the trap to kiss the girl’s cheek once and again.
“You’re a guid lassie,” she said, trembling. “I would have been lost without you! The Lord bless you, my dear!”
“Ay! and she shall be blessed!” added Mr Macalister’s voice, deeply.
Margot thrilled at the sound of those words, and stood back on the path watching the departing wheels through a mist of tears. They had gone, those two good, loving, simple creatures, and in all likelihood she would never see them again; for a moment their lives had touched, but the currents had swept them apart; they were as ships that had passed in the night. To the end of time, however, she must be the better for the meeting, for in their need they had leant upon her, and she had been able to help. They had blessed her in patriarchal fashion, and the sound of their words still rang in her ears—
“The Lord bless you!”
“Ay! and she shall be blessed?”