It was pleasant to be cared for, especially as she was tired and worn, and Magdalen sat very still, with her head upon the pillow and her face in the shadow, until her eyelids began to droop and her hands to slide down into her lap, and when Roger asked if it was time for the medicine, he received no answer, for Magdalen was asleep.
“Poor child,” he said, as he stood looking at her. “She has grown pale and thin with nursing Hester. I must get some one to take her place, and persuade Hester to be reasonable for once. Magda must not be allowed to get sick if I can help it. How very beautiful she is, with the long eyelashes on her cheek and her hair rippling away from her forehead! I wonder are all young girls as beautiful in their sleep as Magda.”
Roger was strangely moved as he stood looking at the tired sleeping girl. Little by little, day by day, week by week, she had been growing into his heart, until now she filled every niche and corner of it, and filled it so completely, that to have torn her from it would have left it bleeding and desolate. She was not his daughter now, nor his ward, nor his sister. She was Magda, his princess, his queen, whose bright eyes and clear, ringing voice thrilled him with a new sense of happiness, and made him long to clasp her in his arms and claim her for his own in the only way she could ever satisfy him now. And he did not greatly fear what her answer might be, for he had noted the bright flush which always came to her cheek, and the kindling light in her starry eyes when he appeared suddenly before her. He did not believe he was indifferent to her, and as he sat by her until the gray dawn broke, he resolved that ere long he would end his suspense, and know from her own lips if she could love him enough to be his wife. Gradually, as her slumber grew more profound, the pillow slipped, and her head dropped into a position which looked so uncomfortable, that Roger ventured to lift it up and place it more easily against the back of the chair. An hour later and Magdalen woke with a start, exclaiming when she saw the daylight through the shutters and Hester’s medicine untouched upon the table, “Why didn’t you wake me? Hester has not taken her medicine, and the doctor will blame me.”
“Hester is just as well without it,” Roger answered. “She has slept quietly every moment, and sleep will do her more good than drugs. My word for it she will be better when she wakes; but, Magda, I shall get her a nurse to-day, and relieve you. I cannot let you grow pale and thin. You are looking like a ghost now. Come with me into the open air, which you need after this close room.”
He wrapped a shawl around her, and taking her hood from the table in the hall tied it upon her head and then led her out upon the wide piazza, where the fresh breeze from the river was blowing, and where he walked up and down, with her hand on his arm, until the color came back to her cheeks, and her eyes had in them their old, restless brightness, as she stood by him and looked off upon the hills just growing red in the light of the rising sun.
It was too early yet for many flowers, but the April winds had melted the snow from off the Millbank grounds, and here and there patches of green grass were beginning to show, and the golden daffodil was just opening its leaves upon the borders of the garden walk. Millbank was nothing to what it would be a few weeks later, but it was handsome even now, and both Roger and Magdalen commented upon its beauty, while the former spoke of some improvements he had in contemplation, and should commence as soon as the ground was settled. A fountain here, and a terrace there for autumn flowers, and another winding walk leading to the grove toward the mill he meant to have, he said, and a pretty little summer-house down by the brook, like one he had seen in England.
And as he talked of the summer-house by the brook, with its rustic seats and stands, the sun passed into a bank of clouds, the wind began to freshen and blow up from the river in raw, chilling gusts, which made Magdalen shiver, and brought to her mind last night’s adventure in the garret where the loose plank was. And with thoughts of that plank there crept over her a deeper chill,—a feeling of depression, as if the brightness of Millbank was passing away forever, and that the change was somehow being wrought by herself.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLE.
Hester was better. Her long sleep had done her good, and when she awoke it was evident that her fever was broken and the crisis of her disease passed. She was perfectly rational, and evidently retained no recollection of what she had said of the garret and Mrs. Walter Scott. Indeed, she was very civil to that lady, who, on her way to breakfast, came in to see her, looking very bright and fresh in her black wrapper, trimmed with scarlet, and her pretty little breakfast cap set on the back of her head. Good fare, which she did not have to pay for,—pure country air, and freedom from all care, had had a rejuvenating effect on Mrs. Walter Scott, and for a woman of forty-seven or thereabouts, she was remarkably handsome and well preserved. This morning she complained of feeling a little languid. She could not have slept as well as usual, she said, and she dreamed that some one came into her room, or tried to come in, and when she woke she was sure she heard footsteps at the extremity of the hall.