Chapter Twenty Three.
Partings.
It was six days later when Margot opened her eyes, and found herself lying on the little white bed in the bedroom of the Nag’s Head, with some one by the window whose profile as outlined against the light seemed strangely and sweetly familiar. She stared dumbly, with a confused wonder in her brain. Edith? It could not possibly be Edith! What should bring Edith up to Glenaire in this sudden and unexpected fashion? And why was she herself so weak and languid that to speak and ask the question seemed an almost impossible exertion?
What had happened? Was she only dreaming that her head ached, and her hands seemed too heavy to move, and that Edith sat by the window near a table covered with medicine bottles and glasses? Margot blinked her eyes, and stared curiously around. No! it was no dream; she was certainly awake, and through the dull torpor of her brain a remembrance began slowly to work. Something had happened! She had been tired and cold; oh, cold, cold, cold; so cold that it had seemed impossible to live. She had wandered on and on, through an eternity of darkness, which had ended in the blackness of night. Her head throbbed with the effort of thinking; she shut her eyes and lay quietly, waiting upon remembrance.
Suddenly it came. A faint flush of colour showed itself in the white cheek, and a tingle of warmth ran through the veins. She remembered now upon whose arm she had hung, whose voice it was which had cheered her onward; in trembling, incredulous fashion she remembered what that voice had said!
A faint exclamation sounded through the stillness, whereupon Edith looked round quickly, and hurried to the bedside.
“Margot! My darling! Do you know me at last?”
Margot smiled wanly. The smooth rounded face had fallen away sadly in that week of fever and unconsciousness, and a little hand was pushed feebly forward.
“Of course. I’m so glad! Edie, have I been ill?”
“Yes, darling; but you are better now. After a few days’ rest you will be well again. You must not be nervous about your dear self.”
“And you came?”
“Yes, darling; Ron telegraphed, and father and I came up at once. Agnes is taking care of the boys.”
“So kind! I remember—it was the mist. Was—Ron—safe?”
“Yes, darling, quite safe. He and Mr Elgood arrived at the cottage very soon after you, and were so thankful to find you there.”
“Is—is everybody well?”
Again that faint flush showed on the cheeks; but Edie was mercifully blind, and answered with direct simplicity—
“Every one, dear, and you are going to be quite well, too. You must not talk any more just now, for you are rather a weak little girl still. Drink this cup of milk, and roll over, and have another nap. It is good to see you sleeping quietly and peacefully again. There! Shut your eyes, like a good girl!”
Then once more Margot floated off into unconsciousness; but this time it was the blessed, health-restoring unconsciousness of sleep, such sleep as she had not known for days past, and from which she awoke with rested body and clearer brain.
When the dear father came in to kiss and greet her, a thin white hand crept up to stroke his hair, and pull his ear in the way he loved, whereupon he blinked away tears of thankfulness, and essayed to be fierce and reproachful.
“So you couldn’t be satisfied until you had dragged the whole family after you, to the ends of the earth! There’s no pleasing some people. This is my reward for being such a fool as to think you could take care of yourself!”
“Ducky Doodles!” murmured Margot fondly. As of yore, she manifested not the faintest alarm at his pretence of severity, but twitched his ear with complacent composure, and once more Mr Vane blinked and swallowed a lump in his throat. There had been hours during those last days when he had feared that he might never again hear himself called “Ducky Doodles,” and what a sad grey world that would have meant!
Then came Ron, a little embarrassed, as was natural in a lad of his years, but truly loving and tender all the same, and Margot’s brown eyes searched his face with wistful questioning.
There was so much that she wanted to ask and to hear, and concerning which no one had as yet vouchsafed information. Ron could tell her all that was to be told, which it was impossible to pass another night without knowing, yet there he sat, sublimely unconscious that she wanted to be assured of anything but his own safety. With the energy of despair, Margot forced herself to put a question.
“How are all—the others?”
“The Elgoods? They are all right. Awfully worried about you, you know, and that sort of thing. Afraid the governor might think they were to blame. The idea of your going down with pneumonia, and frightening us all into fits! I thought you were too healthy to be bowled over so soon, but a London life doesn’t fit one for exposure. The governor was furious with me for bringing you to the North.”
But for once Margot was not interested in her father’s feelings. She turned her head on the pillow and put yet another question.
“They did not catch colds, too?”
“Oh, colds!” Ron laughed lightly. “Of course, we all had colds; what else could you expect? We were lucky to get off so easily. The Elgoods put off leaving until you were safely round the corner, but they are off first thing to-morrow.”
At this there was a quick rustle of the bedclothes.
“Going? Where?” asked a startled voice, in which sounded an uncontrollable quiver of apprehension. “Not away for altogether?”
“Yes! Their time was up three days ago. It is awfully decent of them to have stayed on for so long. We shall meet in town, I suppose; but your Editor man is no use to me, Margot. That little scheme has fallen flat. From first to last he has never troubled to show the faintest interest in my existence, and has avoided the governor all he knew. The Chieftain is worth a dozen of him. He has kept the whole thing going this last week, amused the governor, looked after Edith, been a perfect brick to me. I’m glad we came, if it were only for the sake of making his acquaintance, for he is the grandest man I’ve ever known; but your scheme has failed, old girl.”
From Margot’s expression it would appear that everything on earth had failed. Her face looked as white as the pillow against which she rested, and her eyes were tragic in her despairing sadness. Ron bestirred himself to comfort her, full of gratitude for so heartfelt an interest.
“Never mind! You did your best, and it’s nobody’s fault that he turned out such a Diogenes. The governor has been awfully decent since he came up, and I don’t despair of getting the time extended. He is much more amenable, apart from Agnes, and I fancy the Chieftain puts in a good word for me now and then—not on the score of literature, of course—but after they have been talking together, the governor always seems to look upon me with more—more respect, don’t you know, and less as if I were a hopeless failure, of whom he was more or less ashamed. That’s a gain in itself, isn’t it?”
“’Um!” assented Margot vaguely. “I suppose they drive over to catch the evening express? Did he—they—say anything about me?”
Ron started in surprise.
“My dear girl, we have talked of nothing else but you, for the last week! Pulse, temperature, sleep; sleep, temperature, pulse; every hour the same old tale. You have given us all a rare old fright; but thank goodness you are on the mend at last. The doctor says it is only a matter of time.”
“Did—they—send any message?”
“No! Edie said you were not to be excited. Awfully sorry to miss saying good-bye, and that sort of thing, but hope to meet you another day in town.”
Margot shut her eyes, and the line of curling lashes looked astonishingly black against her cheek.
“I see. Very kind! I’m—tired, Ron. I can’t talk any more.”
Ron rose from his seat with, it must be confessed, a sigh of relief. He was ill at ease in the atmosphere of the sick-room, and hardly recognised his jaunty, self-confident companion in this wan and languid invalid. He dropped a light kiss on Margot’s forehead, and hurried downstairs, to be encountered on the threshold of the inn by George Elgood, who for once seemed anxious to enter into conversation.
“You have been to see your sister. Did she—er—was she well enough to send any message before we go?”
“Oh, she’s all right—quite quiet and sensible again, but doesn’t bother herself much about what is going on. I told her you were off, but she didn’t seem to take much notice. Expect she’s so jolly thankful to feel comfortable again that she doesn’t care for anything else.”
“Er—quite so, quite so!” repeated the Editor hastily; and Ron passed on his way, satisfied that he had been all that was tactful and considerate, and serenely unconscious that he had eclipsed the sun of that summer’s day for two anxious hearts!
There was little sleep for poor Margot that night, and in the morning Edith noticed with alarm the flushed cheeks and shining eyes which seemed to predict a return of the feverish symptoms. She drew down the blind and seated herself by the bedside, determined to guard the door and allow no visitors. The child had evidently had too much excitement the day before, and must now be kept absolutely quiet. But Margot tossed and fidgeted, and threw the clothes restlessly about, refusing to shut her eyes, and allow herself to be tucked up, as the elder sister lovingly advised. Her eyes were strained, and every now and then she lifted her head from the pillow with an anxious, listening movement. At last it came, the sound for which she had been waiting—the rumble of wheels, the clatter of horses’ hoofs, the grunts and groans of the ostler as he lifted the heavy bags to their place. Margot’s brown eyes looked up with a piteous entreaty.
“They are going! You must be quick, Edie. Run down quickly and say good-bye!”
“It isn’t necessary, dear. I saw them before coming upstairs. Ron is there, and father.”
“But you must! I want you to go. Quickly, before it is too late. Edie, you must!”
There was no denying so vehement a command. Edith turned silently away, confirmed in a growing suspicion, and yearning tenderly over the little sister’s suffering. It was the younger brother, of course!—the tall, silent man, whose lips had been so dumb, whose eyes so eloquent, during the critical days of Margot’s illness, and who had been the girl’s companion on the misty moor. What had happened during those hours of suspense and danger? What barriers had been swept aside; what new vistas opened? Edith’s own love was too sweet and sacred a thing to allow her to pry and question into the heart-secrets of another, as is the objectionable fashion of many so-called friends, but with her keen woman-senses she took in George Elgood’s every word, look, and movement during the brief parting scene.
He stood aside, leaving his brother to utter the conventional farewells; his lips were set, and his brows drawn together; but ever and anon, as if against his will, his eyes shot anxious glances towards the window of the room where Margot lay. Edith moved a few steps nearer, to give the chance of a few quiet words, if it was in his heart to speak, but none came. A moment later he had swung himself up beside his brother on the high seat of the cart, and the wheels were beginning to move.
Edith went slowly back to her post, dreading to meet the gaze of those dear brown eyes, which had lost their sparkle, and become so pathetic in their dumb questioning. She had no reassuring message to give, and could only affect a confidence which she was far from feeling.
“Well, dear, they are off, but it is not good-bye—only au revoir, as you are sure to meet again in town before long. Mr Elgood asked permission to call upon me in town. Nice little man! He has been so wonderfully kind and considerate. I can’t think why he should trouble himself so much for a complete stranger. The tall one looked sorry to go! He kept looking up at your window. He has a fine face—strong and clever. He must be an interesting companion.”
Margot did not answer; but five minutes later she asked to have the curtain drawn, as the light hurt her eyes. They had a somewhat red and inflamed appearance for the rest of the day; but when Mr Vane commented on the fact, the dear, wise Edie assured him that it was a common phenomenon after illness, and laid a supply of fresh handkerchiefs on the bed—table in such a quiet and unobtrusive fashion, that they might have grown there of their own accord.
“Some day,” thought Margot dismally to herself, “some day I shall laugh over this!” For the present, however, her sense of humour was strangely blunted, and the handkerchiefs were needed for a very different purpose.