Chapter Twenty Five.
“In Corn.”
Meantime Margot had returned to the far end of the room, and adroitly slipped the third letter out of her pocket, feeling that it would be selfish to delay reading the contents, as they must certainly cast some light upon the present situation. Her heart sank a little as she recognised that the attention was less personal than she had imagined, but even so, it was to herself that the magazine had been directed, and that was an evidence of the fact that in publishing the poem her pleasure had been considered even more than Ronald’s advancement.
She tore open the stiff white envelope and read as follows:—
“Dear Miss Vane,—
“I hear that you are to arrive home this afternoon, and intend to take the liberty of calling upon you after dinner, in the hope that you may be able to give me a few minutes of uninterrupted conversation on a subject of great importance. If you are too much fatigued after your journey, pray have no scruples in refusing me admission, in which case I shall take an early opportunity of calling again; but after the strain of the past few weeks I do not find myself able to wait longer than is absolutely necessary for an interview.
“Yours faithfully,—
“George Elgood.”
“Is that from Elgood? What does he say? What does he say? Let us see what he says!” petitioned Ron eagerly; but Margot returned the letter to her pocket, resolutely ignoring his outstretched hand.
“He gives no explanation, but he is coming to-night. Coming to call after dinner, and he asks me to see him alone, so I’ll find out all about it, and tell you afterwards.”
“Alone!” Ron’s face was eloquent with surprise, disappointment, and a dawning suspicion. “Why alone? It’s more my affair than yours. I must thank him before he goes.”
“I’ll send for you, then. I suppose he wants to explain to me first. I’ll be sure to send for you!” reiterated Margot hurriedly, as she disappeared through the doorway. Her first impulse was, girl-like, to make for her own room, to give those final touches to hair and dress, which are so all-important in effect, and that done, to sit alone, listening for the expected knock at the door, the sound of footsteps ascending to the drawing-room. To meet George Elgood here! To see his tall dark figure outlined against the familiar background of home,—Margot gasped at the thought, and felt her heart leap painfully at every fresh sound.
The postman, the parcels delivery, a van from the Stores, had all claimed the tribute of a blush, a gasp, and a fresh rush to the glass, before at last slow footsteps were heard mounting the stairs, and Mary’s voice at the door announced, “A gentleman to see you, Miss Margot!” and in another minute, as it seemed, she was facing George Elgood across the length of the drawing-room.
The rôles of invalid and anxious inquirer seemed for the moment to be reversed, for while she was pink and smiling, he was grave and of a ghastly pallor. Nervous also; for the first words of greeting were an unintelligible murmur, and they seated themselves in an embarrassed silence.
“You—er—you received my letter?”
“Yes!” Margot gazed at the tips of her dainty slippers, and smiled softly to herself. In the interval which had passed since they last met, the Editor had evidently suffered a relapse into his old shyness and reserve. She had guessed as much from the somewhat stilted phraseology of his letter, and was prepared to reassure him by her own outspoken gratitude.
“Yes; I was so pleased!”
He gave a little start of astonishment, and stared at her with bright, incredulous eyes.
“Pleased? You mean it? You did not think it a liberty—”
“Indeed I did not. I guessed what you had to tell me, and it made me so happy.”
He leaned forward impetuously, the blood flushing his cheeks.
“You had guessed before? You knew it was coming?”
“Not exactly, but I hoped—”
“Hoped!—Margot, is it possible that you have cared, too? It seems too wonderful to be true.—I never dreamt of such amazing happiness. At the best it seemed possible that you would be willing to give me a hearing. I did not dare to write, but this time of waiting has seemed as if it would never end...”
As he began to speak Margot faced him with candid eyes, but at the sound of his voice, and at sight of the answering flash of his eyes, her lids quivered and fell, and she shrank back against the cushions of her chair. Astonishment overwhelmed her; but the relief, the thankfulness, the rapture of the moment obliterated everything else. She gave a strangled sob of emotion and said faintly—
“It—it has seemed long to me, too!”
At that he was on his knees before her, clasping her hands and gazing at her with an expression of rapturous relief. “Oh, Margot, my darling, was it because I was not there? Have you missed me? Not as I have missed you—that is not possible, but enough to remember me sometimes, and to be glad to meet again. Have you thought of me at all, Margot?”
“I—I have thought of nothing else!” sighed Margot. She was generous with her assurance, knowing the nature of the man with whom she had to deal, and her reward was the sight of the illumined face turned upon her.
There, in a corner of a modern drawing-room, with a glimpse of a London street between the curtain folds, Margot and George Elgood found the Eden which is discovered afresh by all true lovers. Such moments are too sacred for intrusion; they live enshrined in memory until the end of life.
It was not until a considerable time had flown by that Margot recalled the events of the earlier evening, and with them still another claim held by her lover upon her gratitude and devotion. Drawing back, so as to lift her charming face to his—a rosy, sparkling face, unrecognisable as the same white and weary visage of a few hours back, she laid her hand on his, and said sweetly—
“We went off at a tangent, didn’t we? I don’t know how we went off, and forgot the real business of the evening; but I never finished thanking you! You must think me terribly ungrateful!”
George Elgood regarded her with puzzled, adoring eyes.
“I haven’t the least idea what you are talking about, but what does it matter? What does anything matter, except that we love each other, and are the happiest creatures on earth? Business, indeed! Why need we trouble ourselves to talk about business? Margot, do you know that you have a dimple in the middle of your cheek? The most beautiful dimple in the world!”
Margot shook her head at him with a pretence of disapproval, smiling the while, so as to show off the dimple to the best advantage.
“You mustn’t make me conceited. I am vain enough already to know that you love me, and have taken so much trouble to please me. It was kind of you!”
“What was kind, sweetheart? There is no kindness in loving you. I had no choice in the matter, for I simply could not help myself!”
“Ah, but you know what I mean! You have given me my two greatest desires! I can’t tell you how happy I was when I saw it.”
He stared at her for a moment, then smiled complacently.
“You mean—my note?”
“No, I didn’t mean your note. Not this time. I meant the magazine!”
“Magazine!”
The accent of bewilderment was unmistakably genuine, and Margot hastened to explain still further.
“The new number of the Loadstar with Ron’s poem in it!”
“Ron’s poem!” The note of bewilderment was accentuated to one of positive incredulity. “A poem by your brother in the Loadstar! I did not know that he wrote at all.”
Now it was Margot’s turn to stare and frown.
“You didn’t know! But you must have known. How else could it get in? You must have given permission.”
“My sweetheart, what have I to do with the Loadstar, or any other magazine? What has my permission to do with it?”
“Everything in the world! Oh, I know exactly what has happened. Your brother has told you about Ron, and showed you his verses, and you put them in for his sake—and mine! Because you knew I should be pleased, and because they are good too, and you were glad to help him. He is longing to come in to thank you himself. We shall both thank you all our lives!”
George Elgood’s face of stupefaction was a sight to behold. His forehead was corrugated with lines of bewilderment; he stared at her in blankest dismay.
“What are you talking about, sweetheart? What does it all mean? Your brother has no need to thank me for any success which he has gained. I should have been only too delighted to help him in any way that was in my power, but I have no influence with the Loadstar Magazine.”
“No influence! How can that be when you are the Editor?”
“I am the What?”
“Editor! You have every influence. You are the magazine!”
George Elgood rose to his feet with a gesture of strongest astonishment.
“I the Editor of a magazine! My dearest little girl, what are you dreaming about? There never was a man less suited to the position. I know nothing whatever of magazines—of any sort of literature. I am in corn!”
A corn merchant! Margot’s brain reeled. She lay back in her chair, staring at him with wide, stunned eyes, too utterly prostrated by surprise to be capable of speech!