Part 24 (1/2)

”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.