The good woman came through the gate, and then ran, with all the speed of sixteen, toward her own home. Margaret stood in the doorway, listening to the retreating footsteps. She was pale and anxious, but Renmark thought he had never seen anyone so lovely; and he was startled to find that he had a most un-professor-like longing to take her in his arms and comfort her. Instead of bringing her consolation, he feared it would be his fate to add to her anxiety; and it was not until he saw she was about to close the door that he found courage to speak.
“Margaret,” he said.
The girl had never heard her name pronounced in that tone before, and the cadence of it went direct to her heart, frightening her with an unknown joy. She seemed unable to move or respond, and stood there, with wide eyes and suspended breath, gazing into the darkness. Renmark stepped into the light, and she saw his face was haggard with fatigue and anxiety.
“Margaret,” he said again, “I want to speak with you a moment. Where is your brother?”
“He has gone with Mr. Bartlett to see if he can find the horses. There is something wrong,” she continued, stepping down beside him. “I can see it in your face. What is it?”
“Is your father in the house?”
“Yes, but he is worried about mother. Tell me what it is. It is better to tell me.”
Renmark hesitated.
“Don’t keep me in suspense like this,” cried the girl in a low but intense voice. “You have said too much or too little. Has anything happened to Henry?”
“No. It is about Arthur I wanted to speak. You will not be alarmed?”