The Turn of the Tide Part 30

There was a moment's hesitation. The listeners held their breath--perhaps, after all, they had been dreaming and there was no voice! Then it came again.

"Yes. He's lying beside me, but he's unconscious--or dead." The last word was almost inaudible, so faint was it; but the tightening of Ned's lips showed that he had heard it, none the less. In a moment he stooped again.

"Keep up your courage, old fellow! We'll have you out of that soon."

Then he stepped aside and gave the signal for the men to fall to work again.

Rapidly, eagerly, but oh, so cautiously, they worked. At the next pause the voice was nearer, so near that they could drop through a small hole a rubber tube four feet long, lowering it until Spencer could put his mouth to it. Through this tube he was given a stimulant, and a cup of strong coffee.

They learned then a little more of what had happened. The two men were on the fourth floor when the crash came. They had been swept down and had been caught between the timbers in such a way that as they lay where they had been flung, a roof three feet above their heads supported the crus.h.i.+ng weight above. Spencer could remember nothing after the first crash, until he regained consciousness long afterward, and heard the workmen far above him. It was then that he had tapped his signal on the projecting timber. He had tapped three times before he had been heard.

At first it was dark, he said, and he could not see, but he knew that McGinnis was near him. McGinnis had spoken once, then had apparently dropped into unconsciousness. At all events he had said nothing since.

Still, Spencer did not think he was dead.

Once more the rescuers fell to work, and it was then that Ned Spencer hurried away to send a message of hope and comfort to Mrs. Merideth, who had long since left the great house on the hill and had come down to the Mill House to be with Margaret. To Margaret Ned wrote the one word "Come," and as he expected, he had not long to wait.

"You have found him!" cried the girl, hurrying toward him. "Ned, he isn't dead!"

Ned smiled and put out a steadying hand.

"We hope not--and we think not. But he is unconscious, Margaret. Don't get your hopes too high. I had to send for you--I thought you ought to know--what we know."

"But where is he? Have you seen him?"

Ned shook his head.

"No; but Frank says----"

"_Frank!_ But you said Frank was unconscious!"

"No, no--they aren't both unconscious--it is only McGinnis. It is Frank who told us the story. He--why, Margaret!" But Margaret was gone; and as Ned watched her flying form disappear toward the Mill House, he wondered if, after all, the last hours of horror had turned her brain. In no other way could he account for her words, and for this most extraordinary flight just at the critical moment when she might learn the best--and the worst--of what had come to her lover. To Ned it seemed that the girl must be mad. He could not know that in Margaret's little room at the Mill House some minutes later, a girl went down on her knees and sobbed:

"To think that 'twasn't Bobby at all that I was thinking of--'twasn't Bobby at all! 'Twas never Bobby that had my first thought. 'Twas always----" Even to herself Margaret would not say the name, and only her sobs finished the sentence.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX

Robert McGinnis was not dead when he was tenderly lifted from his box-like prison, but he was still unconscious. In spite of their marvelous escape from death, both he and his employer were suffering from breaks and bruises that would call for the best of care and nursing for weeks to come; and it seemed best for all concerned that this care and nursing should be given at the Mill House. A removal to Hilcrest in their present condition would not be wise, the physicians said, and the little town hospital was already overflowing with patients. There was really no place but the Mill House, and to the Mill House they were carried.

At the Mill House everything possible was done for their comfort. Two large airy rooms were given up to their use, and the entire household was devoted to their service. The children that had been brought there the night of the fire were gone, and there was no one with whom the two injured men must share the care and attention that were lavished upon them. Trained nurses were promptly sent for, and installed in their positions. Aside from these soft-stepping, whitecapped women, Margaret and the little lame Arabella were the most frequently seen in the sickrooms.

"We're the ornamental part," Margaret would say brightly. "We do the reading and the singing and the amusing."

Arabella was a born nurse, so both the patients said. There was something peculiarly soothing in the soft touch of her hands and in the low tones of her voice. She was happy in it, too. Her eyes almost lost their wistful look sometimes, so absorbed would she be in her self-appointed task.

As for Margaret--Margaret was a born nurse, too, and both the patients said that; though one of the patients, it is true, complained sometimes that she did not give him half a chance to know it. Margaret certainly did not divide her time evenly. Any one could see that. No one, however--not even Frank Spencer himself--could really question the propriety of her devoting herself more exclusively to young McGinnis, the man she had promised to marry.

Margaret was particularly bright and cheerful these days; but to a close observer there was something a little forced about it. No one seemed to notice it, however, except McGinnis. He watched her sometimes with somber eyes; but even he said nothing--until the day before he was to leave the Mill House. Then he spoke.

"Margaret," he began gently, "there is something I want to say to you. I am going to be quite frank with you, and I want you to be so with me.

Will you?"

"Why, of--of course," faltered Margaret, nervously, her eyes carefully avoiding his steady gaze. Then, hopefully: "But, Bobby, really I don't think you should talk to-day; not--not about anything that--that needs that tone of voice. Let's--let's read something!"

Bobby shook his head decidedly.

"No. I'm quite strong enough to talk to-day. In fact, I've wanted to say this for some time, but I've waited until to-day so I could say it.

Margaret, you--you don't love me any longer."

"Oh--Bobby! Why, _Bobby_!" There was dismayed distress in Margaret's voice. When one has for some weeks been trying to lash one's self into a certain state of mind and heart for the express sake of some other one, it is distressing to have that other one so abruptly and so positively show that one's labor has been worse than useless.

"You do not, Margaret--you know that you do not."

"Why, Bobby, what--what makes you say such a dreadful thing," cried the girl, reaching blindly out for some support that would not fail. "As if--I didn't know my own mind!"

Bobby was silent. When he spoke again his voice shook a little.

"I will tell you what makes me say it. For some time I've suspected it--that you did not love me; but after the fire I--I knew it."

"You knew it!"

"Yes. When a girl loves a man, and that man has come back almost from the dead, she goes to him first--if she loves him. When Frank Spencer and I were brought into the hall down-stairs that Wednesday morning, the jar or something brought back my senses for a moment, just long enough for me to hear your cry of 'Frank,' and to see you hurry to his side."

Margaret caught her breath sharply. Her face grew white.

"But, Bobby, you--you were unconscious, I supposed," she stammered faintly. "I didn't think you could answer me if--if I did go to you."

"But you did not--come--to--see." The words were spoken gently, tenderly, sorrowfully.

Margaret gave a low cry and covered her face with her hands. A look that was almost relief came to the man's face.

"There," he sighed. "Now you admit it. We can talk sensibly and reasonably. Margaret, why have you tried to keep it up all these weeks, when it was just killing you?"

"I wanted to make--you--happy," came miserably from behind the hands.

"And did you think I could be made happy that way--by your wretchedness?"

There was no answer.

"I've seen it coming for a long time," he went on gently, "and I did not blame you. I could never have made you happy, and I knew it almost from the first. I wasn't happy, either--because I couldn't make you so.

Perhaps now I--I shall be happier; who knows?" he asked, with a wan little smile.

Margaret sobbed. It was so like Bobby--to belittle his own grief, just to make it easier for her!

"You see, it was for only the work that you cared for me," resumed the man after a minute. "You loved that, and you thought you loved me. But it was only the work all the time, dear. I understand that now. You see I watched you--and I watched him."

"Him!" Margaret's hands were down, and she was looking at Bobby with startled eyes.