Big Game Part 24

"My dear girl, we have talked of nothing else _but_ you, for the last week! Pulse, temperature, sleep; sleep, temperature, pulse; every hour the same old tale. You have given us all a rare old fright; but thank goodness you are on the mend at last. The doctor says it is only a matter of time."

"Did--they--send any message?"

"No! Edie said you were not to be excited. Awfully sorry to miss saying good-bye, and that sort of thing, but hope to meet you another day in town."

Margot shut her eyes, and the line of curling lashes looked astonis.h.i.+ngly black against her cheek.

"I see. Very kind! I'm--tired, Ron. I can't talk any more."

Ron rose from his seat with, it must be confessed, a sigh of relief. He was ill at ease in the atmosphere of the sick-room, and hardly recognised his jaunty, self-confident companion in this wan and languid invalid. He dropped a light kiss on Margot's forehead, and hurried downstairs, to be encountered on the threshold of the inn by George Elgood, who for once seemed anxious to enter into conversation.

"You have been to see your sister. Did she--er--was she well enough to send any message before we go?"

"Oh, she's all right--quite quiet and sensible again, but doesn't bother herself much about what is going on. I told her you were off, but she didn't seem to take much notice. Expect she's so jolly thankful to feel comfortable again that she doesn't care for anything else."

"Er--quite so, quite so!" repeated the Editor hastily; and Ron pa.s.sed on his way, satisfied that he had been all that was tactful and considerate, and serenely unconscious that he had eclipsed the sun of that summer's day for two anxious hearts!

There was little sleep for poor Margot that night, and in the morning Edith noticed with alarm the flushed cheeks and s.h.i.+ning eyes which seemed to predict a return of the feverish symptoms. She drew down the blind and seated herself by the bedside, determined to guard the door and allow no visitors. The child had evidently had too much excitement the day before, and must now be kept absolutely quiet. But Margot tossed and fidgeted, and threw the clothes restlessly about, refusing to shut her eyes, and allow herself to be tucked up, as the elder sister lovingly advised. Her eyes were strained, and every now and then she lifted her head from the pillow with an anxious, listening movement. At last it came, the sound for which she had been waiting--the rumble of wheels, the clatter of horses' hoofs, the grunts and groans of the ostler as he lifted the heavy bags to their place. Margot's brown eyes looked up with a piteous entreaty.

"They are going! You must be quick, Edie. Run down quickly and say good-bye!"

"It isn't necessary, dear. I saw them before coming upstairs. Ron is there, and father."

"But you must! I want you to go. Quickly, before it is too late.

Edie, you _must_!"

There was no denying so vehement a command. Edith turned silently away, confirmed in a growing suspicion, and yearning tenderly over the little sister's suffering. It was the younger brother, of course!--the tall, silent man, whose lips had been so dumb, whose eyes so eloquent, during the critical days of Margot's illness, and who had been the girl's companion on the misty moor. What had happened during those hours of suspense and danger? What barriers had been swept aside; what new vistas opened? Edith's own love was too sweet and sacred a thing to allow her to pry and question into the heart-secrets of another, as is the objectionable fas.h.i.+on of many so-called friends, but with her keen woman-senses she took in George Elgood's every word, look, and movement during the brief parting scene.

He stood aside, leaving his brother to utter the conventional farewells; his lips were set, and his brows drawn together; but ever and anon, as if against his will, his eyes shot anxious glances towards the window of the room where Margot lay. Edith moved a few steps nearer, to give the chance of a few quiet words, if it was in his heart to speak, but none came. A moment later he had swung himself up beside his brother on the high seat of the cart, and the wheels were beginning to move.

Edith went slowly back to her post, dreading to meet the gaze of those dear brown eyes, which had lost their sparkle, and become so pathetic in their dumb questioning. She had no rea.s.suring message to give, and could only affect a confidence which she was far from feeling.

"Well, dear, they are off, but it is not good-bye--only _au revoir_, as you are sure to meet again in town before long. Mr Elgood asked permission to call upon me in town. Nice little man! He has been so wonderfully kind and considerate. I can't think why he should trouble himself so much for a complete stranger. The tall one looked sorry to go! He kept looking up at your window. He has a fine face--strong and clever. He must be an interesting companion."

Margot did not answer; but five minutes later she asked to have the curtain drawn, as the light hurt her eyes. They had a somewhat red and inflamed appearance for the rest of the day; but when Mr Vane commented on the fact, the dear, wise Edie a.s.sured him that it was a common phenomenon after illness, and laid a supply of fresh handkerchiefs on the bed--table in such a quiet and un.o.btrusive fas.h.i.+on, that they might have grown there of their own accord.

"Some day," thought Margot dismally to herself, "some day I shall laugh over this!" For the present, however, her sense of humour was strangely blunted, and the handkerchiefs were needed for a very different purpose.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

A PROUD MOMENT.

Margot's recovery was somewhat tedious, so that it was quite three weeks after the departure of the brothers Elgood before she was strong enough to face the journey home. In the meantime Edith remained in charge as nurse, while Mr Vane and Ron varied the monotony of life in the Glen by making short excursions of two or three days' duration to places of interest in the neighbourhood.

Notwithstanding the unchanged position of affairs, they appeared to be on unusually good terms, a fact which would have delighted Margot if she had been in her usual health and spirits; but she had become of late so languid and preoccupied as to appear almost unconscious of her surroundings. Once a day she did, indeed, rouse herself sufficiently to show some interest in pa.s.sing events, that is to say, when the post arrived in the morning; but the revival was but momentary, and on each occasion was followed by a still deeper depression.

The elder sister was very tender during those days of waiting; very tactful and patient with little outbursts of temper and unreasonable changes of mind. She knew that it was not so much physical as mental suffering which was r.e.t.a.r.ding the girl's progress, and yearned over her with a sympathy that was almost maternal in its depth.

The little sister had proved herself such a true friend during the trials of the last few years, that she would have gone through fire and water to save her from pain; but there are some things which even the most devoted relative cannot do.

Edith could not, for instance, write to George Elgood and question him concerning his silence: could not ask how it came to pa.s.s that while his brother had written to Margot, to Ronald, even to herself, he remained silent, content to send commonplace messages through a third person. As for Margot herself, she never mentioned the younger of the two brothers, but was always ready to talk about the elder, and seemed unaffectedly pleased at her sister's appreciation of the kindly, genial little man.

"But why was he so sweet to me?" Edith would ask, with puzzled wonderment. "From the moment I arrived he seemed to be on the outlook to see how he could help. And he took an interest in Jack, and asked all about him and his affairs. The astonis.h.i.+ng thing is that I told him, too! Though he was a stranger, his interest was so _real_ and deep that I could confide in him more easily than in many old friends. Had you been talking about us to him, by any chance?"

Margot turned her head on the pillow, and stared out of the window to the ridge of hills against the skyline. Her cheeks had sunk, making the brown eyes appear pathetically large and worn. There was a listlessness in her expression which was strangely different from the vivacious, self-confident Margot of a few weeks ago.

"Yes, I spoke about you one day. He liked you, because you were so fond of Jack. He was in love himself, and the girl died, but he loves her still, just the same. He tries to help other girls for her sake. He said he wanted to know you. If it were ever in his power to help you and Jack, he would do it; but sometimes no one can help. It makes things worse when they try. You might just as well give up at once."

"Margot! What heresy, dear! From you, too, who are always preaching courage and perseverance! That's pneumonia croaking, not the gallant little champion of the family! What would Ron and I have done without you this last year, I should like to know? Isn't it nice to see father and the boy on such good terms? I believe that also is in a great degree due to Mr Elgood's influence. The pater told me that he congratulated him on having such a son, and seemed to think Ron quite unusually gifted. It is wonderful how much one man thinks of another man's judgment! We have said the same thing for years past, and it has had no effect; but when a calm, level-headed man of business drops a word, it is accepted as gospel. You will be happy, won't you, darling, if Ron's future is harmoniously arranged?"

"Ron will be happy!" said Margot shortly. At the moment it seemed to her as if such good fortune could never again be her own. She must always be miserable, since George Elgood cared so little for her that he could disappear into s.p.a.ce and leave her without a word. Formal messages sent through another person did not count, when one recalled the tone of the voice which had said, "_Margot_!" and blushed at the remembrance of that other word which had followed.

Sometimes, during those long days of convalescence, Margot almost came to the conclusion that what she had heard had been the effect of imagination only; as unreal and dream-like as the other events of that fateful afternoon. At other times, as if in contradiction of these theories, every intonation of the Editor's voice would ring in her ears, and once again she would flush and tremble with happiness.

At last the day arrived when the return to town need no longer be delayed. Mr Vane was anxious to return to his work, Edith to her husband and children; and the doctor p.r.o.nounced Margot strong enough to bear the journey in the comfortable invalid carriage which had been provided.

Preparations were therefore made for an early start, and poor Elspeth made happy by such a wholesale legacy of garments as composed a very trousseau in the estimation of the Glen.

No one was bold enough to offer a gift to Mrs McNab, but when the last moment arrived Margot lifted her white face with lips slightly pursed, like a child asking for a kiss. As on the occasion of her first appearance, a contortion of suppressed emotion pa.s.sed over the dour Scotch face, and something suspiciously like moisture trembled in the cold eyes.

"When ye come back again, come back twa!" was the enigmatical sentence with which the landlady made her adieu, and a faint colour flickered in Margot's cheek as she pondered over its significance.

The journey home was broken by a night spent in Perth, and London was reached on the afternoon of a warm July day. The trees in the Park looked grey with dust, the air felt close and heavy after the exhilaration of the mountain breezes to which the travellers had become accustomed; even the house itself had a heavy, stuffy smell, despite the immaculate cleanliness of its _regime_.

Jack Martin was waiting to take his wife back to Oxford Terrace, the children having already preceded her, and Margot felt a sinking of loneliness at being left to Agnes's tender mercies.

"Dear me, child, what a wreck you look! Your Highland holiday has been a fine upset for us all. What did I tell you before you started?

Perhaps another time you may condescend to listen to what I say!" Such was the ingratiating welcome bestowed upon the weary girl on her arrival; yet when Margot turned aside in silence, and made no response to the accompanying kiss of welcome, Agnes felt hurt and aggrieved.

From morning to night she had bustled about the house, a.s.suring herself that everything was in apple-pie order; arranging flowers, putting out treasures of fancy-work, providing comforts for the invalid. "And she never notices, nor says one word of thanks. I can't understand Margot!"

said poor Agnes to herself for the hundredth time, as she seated herself at the head of the table for dinner.

"Are there any letters for me, Agnes?" queried Margot anxiously.

"One or two, I believe, and a paper or something of the sort. You can see them after dinner."

"I want them now!" said Margot obstinately. She pushed back her chair from the table, and walked across the room to the desk where newly- arrived letters were laid out to await the coming of their owners.

Three white envelopes lay there, and a rolled-up magazine, all addressed to herself. She flushed expectantly as she bent to examine the different handwritings. Two were uninterestingly familiar, belonging to faithful girl friends who had hastened to welcome her home; the third was unmistakably a man's hand,--small and compact, the letters fine, and accurately formed.

A blessed intuition told Margot that her waiting was at an end, and that this was the message for which she had longed ever since her return to consciousness. With a swift movement she slipped the envelope into her pocket, to be opened later on in the privacy of her room, and returned to the table, bearing the other communications in her hand.

"I should have thought that after six weeks' absence from home you might have been willing to talk to _me_, instead of wanting to read letters at your very first meal!" said Agnes severely; and Margot laughed in good- natured a.s.sent.

"I won't open them! It was only curiosity to see what they were. I'll talk as much as you like, Aggie dear."

It was, all of a sudden, so easy to be amiable and unselfis.h.!.+ The nervous irritation which had made it difficult to be patient, even with dear, tactful Edie during the last weeks, had taken wing and departed with the first sight of that square white envelope. The light came back to Margot's eyes; she held her head erect, the very hollows in her cheeks seemed miraculously to disappear, and to be replaced by the old dimpling smile. Mr Vane and Ron exchanged glances of delight at the marvellous manner in which their invalid had stood the journey home.