Part 5 (2/2)

”She'll take _me_!” she declared complacently. ”She can't refuse me shelter for a night at least, after such a long, tiring journey, and I'll be such a perfect dear, that after twenty-four hours she wouldn't be bribed to do without me! You can leave Mrs McNab to me, Ron. I'll manage her. Very well then, there we shall be, away from the madding crowd, shut up in that lonely Highland glen, in the quaint little inn; two nice, amiable, attractive young people with nothing to do but make ourselves amiable and useful to our companions. Mr Elgood can't be young; he is certainly middle-aged, perhaps quite old; he will be very tired after his year's work, and perhaps even ill. Very well then, we will wait upon him and save him trouble! You shall bicycle to the village for his tobacco and papers, and I'll read aloud and bring him cups of tea. We won't worry him, but we'll be there all the time, waiting and watching for an opportunity. One never knows what may happen in the country. He might slip into the river some day, and you could drag him out. Ronald, wouldn't it be perfectly lovely if you could save his life!”

The two youthful faces confronted each other breathlessly for a moment, and then simultaneously boy and girl burst into a peal of laughter.

They laughed and laughed again, till the tear-drops shone on Margot's lashes, and Ronald's pale face was flushed with colour.

”You silly girl! What nonsense you talk! I'm afraid Mr Elgood won't give me a chance of rescuing him. He won't want to be bothered with literary aspirants on his summer holiday, and he will guess that I want his help--”

”He mustn't guess anything of the kind until the end of the time. You must even never mention the word poetry. It would neither be fair to him, nor wise for ourselves. What we have to do is to make ourselves so charming and interesting that at the end of the three weeks he will want to help us as much as we want to be helped. I understand how to manage old gentlemen I've had experience, you see, in rather a difficult school. Poor father! I must run down to comfort him before I go to bed. I feel sure he is sitting in the library, puffing away at his pipe, and feeling absolutely retched. He always does after he has been cross.”

Ronald's face hardened with youthful disapproval. ”Why should you pity him? It's his own fault.”

”That makes it all the harder, for he has remorse to trouble him, as well as disappointment. You must not be hard on the pater, Ron.

Remember he has looked forward to having you with him in business ever since you were born, and it is awfully hard on him to be disappointed just when he is beginning to feel old and tired, and would be glad of a son's help. It is not easy to give up the dream of twenty years!”

Ronald felt conscience-stricken. He knew in his own heart that he would find it next to impossible to relinquish his own dawning ambitions, and the thought silenced his complaints. He looked at his sister and smiled his peculiarly sweet smile.

”You have a wide heart, Margot. It can sympathise with both plaintiff and defendant at the same time.”

”Why, of course!” a.s.serted Margot easily. ”I love them both, you see, and that makes things easy. Go to bed, dear boy, and dream of Glenaire!

Your chance is coming at the eleventh hour.”

The light flashed in the lad's eyes as he bent his head for the good- night kiss--a light of hope and expectation, which was his sister's best reward.

Ron had worked, fretted, and worried of late, and his health itself might break down under the strain, for his const.i.tution was not strong.

During one long, anxious year there had been fear of lung trouble, and mental agitation of any kind told quickly upon him. Margot's thoughts flew longingly to the northern glen where the wind blew fresh and cool over the heather, with never a taint of smoke and grime to mar its G.o.d- given purity. All that would be medicine indeed, after the year's confinement in the murky city! Ron would lift up his head again, like a plant refreshed with dew; body and mind alike would then expand in jubilant freedom.

Margot crept down the darkened staircase, treading with precaution as she pa.s.sed her sister's room. The hall beneath was in utter darkness, for it was against Agnes's economical instincts to leave a light burning after eleven o'clock, even for the convenience of the master of the house. When Mr Vane demurred, she pointed out that it was the easiest thing in the world for him to put a match to the candle which was left waiting for his use, and that each electric light cost--she had worked it all out, and mentioned a definite and substantial sum which would be wasted by the end of the year if the light were allowed to burn in hall or staircase while he enjoyed his nightly read and smoke.

”Would you wish this money to be wasted?” she asked calmly; and thus questioned, there was no alternative but to reply in the negative. It would never do for the head of the house to pose as an advocate of extravagance; but all the same he was irritated by the necessity, and with Agnes for enforcing it.

Margot turned the handle of the door and stood upon the threshold looking across the room.

It was as she had imagined. On the big leather chair beside the tireless grate sat Mr Vane, one hand supporting the pipe at which he was drearily puffing from time to time, the other hanging limp and idle by his side. Close at hand stood his writing-table, the nearer corner piled high with books, papers, and reviews, but to-night they had remained undisturbed. The inner tragedy of the man's own life had precluded interest in outside happenings. He wanted his wife! That was the incessant cry of his heart, which, diminished somewhat by the pa.s.sage of the years, awoke to fresh intensity at each new crisis of life! The one love of his youth and his manhood; the dearest, wisest, truest friend that was ever sent by G.o.d to be the helpmeet of man--why had she been taken from him just when he needed her most, when the children were growing up, and her son, the longed-for Benjamin, was at his most susceptible age? It was a mystery which could never be solved this side of the grave. As a Christian Mr Vane hung fast to the belief that love and wisdom were behind the cloud; but, though his friends commented on his bravery and composure, no one but himself knew at what a cost his courage was sustained. Every now and then, when the longing was like an ache in his soul, and when he felt weary and dispirited, and irritated by the self-will of the children who were children no longer, then, alas! he was apt to forget himself, and to utter bitter, hasty words which would have grieved _her_ ears, if she had been near to listen. After each of these outbreaks he suffered tortures of remorse and loneliness, realising that by his own deed he had alienated his children; grieving because they did not, could not understand!

Except, perhaps, Margot! Margot, the third little daughter, whose coming in the place of the much-desired boy had been a keen disappointment to both parents. The mother had been doubly tender to the child, as if to compensate for that pa.s.sing pang; but Mr Vane recalled with contrition that he himself had remained indifferent and neglectful until two or three years later, when at last Ronald had made his tardy appearance. Then ensued constant visits to the nursery, to examine the progress of the son and heir; and after the daily questioning and inspection it was impossible to resist bestowing some little attention on the bewitching curly-headed, chubby-cheeked little damsel who clung to his trouser leg, and raised entreating eyes from the alt.i.tude of his knee. Mr Vane felt guiltily conscious of having neglected this child, and now in the content of gratified ambition he proceeded to make good that neglect by petting her to her heart's desire, until as time went on it became an open question whether his daily visits were not paid even more to the girl than to the boy.

Ronald remained his father's pride, but Margot was his joy, his pet,--in years to come his comfort and companion.

There was more of the dead mother in this last daughter than in either of the elder sisters; she had her mother's gift of insight and understanding.

This was not the first time of many that she had crept downstairs after the household was in bed, to play David to his Saul, and to-night, as he turned his eyes to the doorway and recognised her slight figure, it was not surprise which he felt, but rather a shamed and uneasy embarra.s.sment. ”Margot! It's very late! Why are you not in bed?”

She shut the door and crossed the room to his side.

”I wanted to talk to you!”

”To remonstrate, I suppose, for what I said at supper! You and Ron are angry, no doubt, and feel yourselves badly used. You have come to fight his battles, as usual.”

”No. I don't want to fight at all. Just to talk to you a little while, and say I'm sorry.”

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