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!”