Chapter Twenty Four.
A Proud Moment.
Margot’s recovery was somewhat tedious, so that it was quite three weeks after the departure of the brothers Elgood before she was strong enough to face the journey home. In the meantime Edith remained in charge as nurse, while Mr Vane and Ron varied the monotony of life in the Glen by making short excursions of two or three days’ duration to places of interest in the neighbourhood.
Notwithstanding the unchanged position of affairs, they appeared to be on unusually good terms, a fact which would have delighted Margot if she had been in her usual health and spirits; but she had become of late so languid and preoccupied as to appear almost unconscious of her surroundings. Once a day she did, indeed, rouse herself sufficiently to show some interest in passing events, that is to say, when the post arrived in the morning; but the revival was but momentary, and on each occasion was followed by a still deeper depression.
The elder sister was very tender during those days of waiting; very tactful and patient with little outbursts of temper and unreasonable changes of mind. She knew that it was not so much physical as mental suffering which was retarding the girl’s progress, and yearned over her with a sympathy that was almost maternal in its depth.
The little sister had proved herself such a true friend during the trials of the last few years, that she would have gone through fire and water to save her from pain; but there are some things which even the most devoted relative cannot do.
Edith could not, for instance, write to George Elgood and question him concerning his silence: could not ask how it came to pass that while his brother had written to Margot, to Ronald, even to herself, he remained silent, content to send commonplace messages through a third person. As for Margot herself, she never mentioned the younger of the two brothers, but was always ready to talk about the elder, and seemed unaffectedly pleased at her sister’s appreciation of the kindly, genial little man.
“But why was he so sweet to me?” Edith would ask, with puzzled wonderment. “From the moment I arrived he seemed to be on the outlook to see how he could help. And he took an interest in Jack, and asked all about him and his affairs. The astonishing thing is that I told him, too! Though he was a stranger, his interest was so real and deep that I could confide in him more easily than in many old friends. Had you been talking about us to him, by any chance?”
Margot turned her head on the pillow, and stared out of the window to the ridge of hills against the skyline. Her cheeks had sunk, making the brown eyes appear pathetically large and worn. There was a listlessness in her expression which was strangely different from the vivacious, self-confident Margot of a few weeks ago.
“Yes, I spoke about you one day. He liked you, because you were so fond of Jack. He was in love himself, and the girl died, but he loves her still, just the same. He tries to help other girls for her sake. He said he wanted to know you. If it were ever in his power to help you and Jack, he would do it; but sometimes no one can help. It makes things worse when they try. You might just as well give up at once.”
“Margot! What heresy, dear! From you, too, who are always preaching courage and perseverance! That’s pneumonia croaking, not the gallant little champion of the family! What would Ron and I have done without you this last year, I should like to know? Isn’t it nice to see father and the boy on such good terms? I believe that also is in a great degree due to Mr Elgood’s influence. The pater told me that he congratulated him on having such a son, and seemed to think Ron quite unusually gifted. It is wonderful how much one man thinks of another man’s judgment! We have said the same thing for years past, and it has had no effect; but when a calm, level-headed man of business drops a word, it is accepted as gospel. You will be happy, won’t you, darling, if Ron’s future is harmoniously arranged?”
“Ron will be happy!” said Margot shortly. At the moment it seemed to her as if such good fortune could never again be her own. She must always be miserable, since George Elgood cared so little for her that he could disappear into space and leave her without a word. Formal messages sent through another person did not count, when one recalled the tone of the voice which had said, “Margot!” and blushed at the remembrance of that other word which had followed.
Sometimes, during those long days of convalescence, Margot almost came to the conclusion that what she had heard had been the effect of imagination only; as unreal and dream-like as the other events of that fateful afternoon. At other times, as if in contradiction of these theories, every intonation of the Editor’s voice would ring in her ears, and once again she would flush and tremble with happiness.
At last the day arrived when the return to town need no longer be delayed. Mr Vane was anxious to return to his work, Edith to her husband and children; and the doctor pronounced Margot strong enough to bear the journey in the comfortable invalid carriage which had been provided.
Preparations were therefore made for an early start, and poor Elspeth made happy by such a wholesale legacy of garments as composed a very trousseau in the estimation of the Glen.
No one was bold enough to offer a gift to Mrs McNab, but when the last moment arrived Margot lifted her white face with lips slightly pursed, like a child asking for a kiss. As on the occasion of her first appearance, a contortion of suppressed emotion passed over the dour Scotch face, and something suspiciously like moisture trembled in the cold eyes.
“When ye come back again, come back twa!” was the enigmatical sentence with which the landlady made her adieu, and a faint colour flickered in Margot’s cheek as she pondered over its significance.
The journey home was broken by a night spent in Perth, and London was reached on the afternoon of a warm July day. The trees in the Park looked grey with dust, the air felt close and heavy after the exhilaration of the mountain breezes to which the travellers had become accustomed; even the house itself had a heavy, stuffy smell, despite the immaculate cleanliness of its régime.
Jack Martin was waiting to take his wife back to Oxford Terrace, the children having already preceded her, and Margot felt a sinking of loneliness at being left to Agnes’s tender mercies.
“Dear me, child, what a wreck you look! Your Highland holiday has been a fine upset for us all. What did I tell you before you started? Perhaps another time you may condescend to listen to what I say!” Such was the ingratiating welcome bestowed upon the weary girl on her arrival; yet when Margot turned aside in silence, and made no response to the accompanying kiss of welcome, Agnes felt hurt and aggrieved. From morning to night she had bustled about the house, assuring herself that everything was in apple-pie order; arranging flowers, putting out treasures of fancy-work, providing comforts for the invalid. “And she never notices, nor says one word of thanks. I can’t understand Margot!” said poor Agnes to herself for the hundredth time, as she seated herself at the head of the table for dinner.
“Are there any letters for me, Agnes?” queried Margot anxiously.
“One or two, I believe, and a paper or something of the sort. You can see them after dinner.”
“I want them now!” said Margot obstinately. She pushed back her chair from the table, and walked across the room to the desk where newly-arrived letters were laid out to await the coming of their owners. Three white envelopes lay there, and a rolled-up magazine, all addressed to herself. She flushed expectantly as she bent to examine the different handwritings. Two were uninterestingly familiar, belonging to faithful girl friends who had hastened to welcome her home; the third was unmistakably a man’s hand,—small and compact, the letters fine, and accurately formed.
A blessed intuition told Margot that her waiting was at an end, and that this was the message for which she had longed ever since her return to consciousness. With a swift movement she slipped the envelope into her pocket, to be opened later on in the privacy of her room, and returned to the table, bearing the other communications in her hand.
“I should have thought that after six weeks’ absence from home you might have been willing to talk to me, instead of wanting to read letters at your very first meal!” said Agnes severely; and Margot laughed in good-natured assent.
“I won’t open them! It was only curiosity to see what they were. I’ll talk as much as you like, Aggie dear.”
It was, all of a sudden, so easy to be amiable and unselfish! The nervous irritation which had made it difficult to be patient, even with dear, tactful Edie during the last weeks, had taken wing and departed with the first sight of that square white envelope. The light came back to Margot’s eyes; she held her head erect, the very hollows in her cheeks seemed miraculously to disappear, and to be replaced by the old dimpling smile. Mr Vane and Ron exchanged glances of delight at the marvellous manner in which their invalid had stood the journey home.
The letters and parcel lay unnoticed on the table until the conclusion of the meal, but as Margot picked them up preparatory to carrying them upstairs to her own room, she gave a sudden start of astonishment.
“Ron, it’s the Loadstar! Some one has sent me a copy of the Loadstar. From the office, I think, for the name is printed on the cover. Who could it be?”
“The Editor, of course—as a mark of attention on your return home. Lazy beggar! It was easier than writing a letter,” laughed Ron easily, stretching out his hand as he spoke to take forcible possession, for the magazine was of more interest to himself than to Margot, and he felt that a new copy was just what was needed to occupy the hours before bedtime.
Margot made no demur, but stood watching quietly while Ron tore off the wrapper, and flattened the curled paper. She was not in a reading mood, but the suggestion that George Elgood might have sent the magazine made it precious in her sight, and she waited anxiously for its return.
“It’s mine, Ron. It was sent to me! I want to take it upstairs.”
“Let me look at the index first, to see who is writing this month! You don’t generally care for such stiff reading; I say, there’s a fine collection of names! It’s stronger than ever this month. I don’t believe there is another paper in the world which has such splendid fellows for contribu—”
Ron stopped short, his voice failing suddenly in the middle of the word. His jaw dropped, and a wave of colour surged in his cheeks.
“It—it can’t be!” he gasped incredulously. “It can’t! There must be another man of the same name. It can’t possibly be meant for me!...”
“What? What? Let me see? What are you talking about?” cried Margot, peering eagerly over his shoulder, while Ron pointed with a trembling finger to the end of the table of contents. Somehow the words seemed to be printed in a larger type than the rest. They grew larger and larger until they seemed to fill the whole page—“Solitude. A Fragment. By Ronald Vane!”
“Oh, Ron, it is!” shrieked Margot, in happy excitement. “It is you, and no one else! I told you it was beautiful when you read it to me that day in the Glen! Oh, when did you send it to him?”
“Never! I never so much as mentioned my verses in his hearing. That was part of the bargain—that we should not worry him on his holiday. Margot, it was you! You are only pretending that you know nothing about it. It must be your doing.”
“Indeed it isn’t! I never even spoke of you to him.” Margot had the grace to blush at the confession; but by this time Ron had turned over the pages until he had come to the one on which his own words faced him in the beautiful distinct typing of the magazine, and the rapture of the moment precluded every other sentiment. He did not hear what Margot said, so absorbed was he in re-reading the lines in their delightful new setting.
“It is good; but it is only a fragment. It isn’t finished. Why was this chosen, instead of one of the others?”
“I told you you would ruin it if you made it longer. It is perfect as it is, and anything more would be padding. It is a little gem, worthy even of a place in the Loadstar. Father, do you hear? Do you understand? Look at your son’s name among all those great men! Aren’t you glad? Aren’t you proud! Aren’t you going to congratulate us both?”
Mr Vane growled a little, for the sake of appearances; but though his eyebrows frowned, the corners of his lips relaxed in a manner distinctly complacent. Even recognising as he did the herald of defeat, it was impossible to resist a thrill of pride as his eye glanced down the imposing list of names held open for his inspection. A great scientist; a great statesman; a leading author; an astronomer known throughout the world; a soldier veteran, and near the end that other name, so dearly familiar—the name of his own son! The voice in which he spoke was gruff with emotion. “Humph! You are in good company, at least. Let me see the verses themselves. There must be something in them, I suppose, but I am no judge of these things.”