“But after all, he has done what you wished! I envy him for being able to give you such pleasure; but perhaps I may be able to do as much in another way. Geoff tells me that Mr Martin has had financial troubles, and there is nothing I would not do to help any one who belongs to you. I’m out of my depths in poetry, but in business matters I can count, and in this case I shall not be satisfied until I do.”
Margot drew a long breath of contentment. “Oh, if Jack is happy, and Ron is successful, and I have—You!—there will be nothing left to wish for in all the world. Poor Ron! he is waiting eagerly to come in to thank you for publishing his verse, and wondering why in the world you wanted to see me alone. Don’t you think you ought just to read it, to be able to say it is nice?”
“No, I don’t! You are all the poetry I can attend to to-night, and for goodness’ sake keep him away; I shall have to interview your father later on, but after waiting all these weeks I must have you to myself a little longer.”
“Oh, I won’t send for him. I don’t want him a bit,” cried Margot naïvely, “but he will come!”
And he did!
Waiting downstairs in the study, an hour seemed an absurd length of time, and when no summons came Ron determined to take the law in his own hands and join the conference. The tableau which was revealed to him on opening the drawing-room door struck him dumb with amazement, and the explanations which ensued appeared still more extraordinary.
George Elgood speedily beat a retreat to the study, where Mr Vane listened to his request with quiet resignation. Elderly, grey-haired fathers have a way of seeing more than their children suspect, and Margot’s father had recognised certain well-known signs in the manner in which he had been questioned concerning his daughter’s progress during those anxious days at Glenaire. His heart sank as he listened to the lover’s protestations, but he told himself that he ought to be thankful to know that his little Margot had chosen a man of unblemished character, who was of an age to appreciate his responsibility, possessed an income sufficient to keep her in comfort, and, last but not least, a home within easy distance of his own.
Late that evening, when her lover had taken his departure, Margot stole down to the study and sat silently for a time on her old perch on the arm of her father’s chair, with her head resting lovingly against his own. He was thankful to feel her dear presence, and to know that she wished to be near him on this night of all others, but his heart was too full to speak, and it was she who at last spoke the first words.
“I never knew,” she said softly, “I never knew that it was possible to be as happy as this. It’s so wonderful! One can’t realise it all. Father dear, I’ve been thinking of you! ... I never realised before what it meant to you when mother died—all that you lost! You have been good, and brave, and unselfish, dear, and we must have tried you sorely many times. We didn’t understand, but I understand a little bit now, daddy, and it makes me love you more. You’ll remember, won’t you, that this is going to draw us closer together, not separate us one little bit? You’ll be sure to remember?”
“Bless you, dear!” he said, and stroked her hand with tender fingers. “It is sweet to hear you say so, at least. I’m glad you are going to be happy, and if I am to give you away at all, I am glad it is to a strong, sensible man whom I can trust and respect; but it will be a sad day for me when you leave the old home, Margot.”