They spoke no more, but walked silently side by side, until they drew near to the inn, when suddenly the silence of the Glen was broken by a strange, unaccustomed sound. What was it? Whence did it come? From some animal surely; some animal in pain or fear, piteously making known its needs! It could not be the moan of human woe! Yet even as she passionately denied the thought, Margot recognised in her heart that it was true, and darting quickly forward made her way into the inn parlour. The messenger still stood outside the door, waiting in stolid patience for instructions, and by his side was Mrs McNab, wiping floury hands in her apron, in evident perturbation of spirit.
On the plush-bedecked sofa in the corner of the parlour the half-inanimate form of Mrs Macalister swayed helplessly to and fro, while on either side stood two men—her husband and George Elgood—looking on in helpless, masculine fashion. Her cap had fallen back from her head, her ruddy face was bleached to a livid grey, from her lips came from time to time that pitiful, hopeless wail. At first it seemed to have no definite sound, but as one listened it took to itself words,—always the same words, repeated again and again—
“My lassie! My Lizzie! Oh, my lassie!”
“Nay, dearie, nay! You mustna give way. She’s better off. You must be strong. We’ll bear it together.”
It was Mr Macalister who spoke; but Margot hardly recognised the voice, hardly recognised the face, which, for all its pallor and quiver of pain, was yet strong and calm. All trace of the peevish discontent that had hung like a cloud over the man had vanished like a mist; his bowed back seemed to have straightened itself and grown erect; the whining voice was composed and full of courage. He had forgotten his nerves in the presence of a great calamity; nay, more than that—he had forgotten himself; his one care and anxiety was for his wife!
The tears smarted in Margot’s eyes; she ran forward, dropped on her knees before the chair, and clasped her strong young arms round the swaying figure, steadying it with loving, gentle pressure. The wan eyes stared at her unrecognisingly for a moment, then, at the sight of her girlish beauty, old memories returned, and the tears began to rain.
“Lizzie’s gone! Lizzie’s gone! I’ll never see her again. All in a moment, and me so far away. My little Lizzie!... I canna bear it!...”
“She never suffered, mother. She knew nothing about it. It’s better for her than a long, painful illness. You must be thankful for her sake.” Mr Macalister looked down at Margot, and bravely essayed an explanation. “It was an accident. We’ve just heard. Instantaneous, they say. The mother’s sore upset, but she’s a brave woman. She’ll bear it bravely for all our sakes. We’ll need to get back to Glasgow.”
“Yes. I’ll help! I’ll pack for her. Don’t trouble about anything. I’ll see that it is all right. You’ll let me help you, dear, won’t you?” Margot put up a tender hand, to straighten the cap on the poor, dishevelled head; and something in the simple, daughterly action seemed to reach the poor woman’s heart, and bring with it the first touch of calmness. She sat up and looked blankly from side to side.
“I—I’m sorry! I shouldna give way. I never lost a child before, you see, and Lizzie was such a one for her mother. I wrote to her only last night. She leaves two bairnies of her own, but they are so young. They’ll never remember her!” The pitiful trembling began again, whereupon George Elgood’s hand held out a glass of water, and Margot took it from him to lift it to the quivering lips.