"He is come," said the girl softly, as she saw the tall ulstered
figure appear from the carriage. There was no answer, and as she went
on tiptoe to the fire, she saw that the old lady was asleep. She went
noiselessly out of the room, and stood for an instant, every pulse
racing with horrible excitement, listening to the footsteps and voices
in the hall. Then she drew a long trembling breath, steadied herself
with a huge effort of the will, and went downstairs.
"Mr. Laurie's gone into the smoking-room, miss," said the servant,
looking at her oddly.
He was standing by the table as she went in; so much she could see:
but the candles were unlighted, and no more was visible of him than
his outline against the darkening window.
"Well, Laurie?" she said.
"Well, Maggie," said his voice in answer. And their hands met.
Then in an instant she knew that something was wrong. Yet at the
moment she had not an idea as to what it was that told her that. It
was Laurie's voice surely!
"You're all in the dark," she said.
There was no movement or word in answer. She passed her hand along the
mantelpiece for the matches she had seen there just before; but her
hand shook so much that some little metal ornament fell with a crash
as she fumbled there, and she drew a long almost vocal breath of
sudden nervous alarm. And still there was no movement in answer. Only
the tall figure stood watching her it seemed--a pale luminous patch
showing her his face.
Then she found the matches and struck one; and, keeping her face
downcast, lighted, with fingers that shook violently, the two candles
on the little table by the fire. She must just be natural and
ordinary, she kept on telling herself. Then with another fierce effort
of will she began to speak, lifting her eyes to his face as she did
so.
"Auntie's just fallen..." (her voice died suddenly for an instant, as
she saw him looking at her)--then she finished--"just fallen asleep.
Will ... you come up presently ... Laurie?"
Every word was an effort, as she looked steadily into the eyes that
looked so steadily into hers.
It was Laurie--yes--but, good God...!
"You must just kiss her and come away," she said, driving out the
words with effort after effort. "She has a bad headache this
evening.... Laurie--a bad headache."
With a sudden twitch she turned away from those eyes.
"Come, Laurie," she said. And she heard his steps following her.
They passed so through the inner hall and upstairs: and, without
turning again, holding herself steady only by the consciousness that
some appalling catastrophe was imminent if she did not, she opened the
door of the old lady's room.
"Here he is," she said. "Now, Laurie, just kiss her and come away."
"My dearest," came the old voice from the gloom, and two hands were
lifted.
Maggie watched, as the tall figure came obediently forward, in an
indescribable terror. It was as when one watches a man in a tiger's
den.... But the figure bent obediently, and kissed.
Maggie instantly stepped forward.
"Not a word," she said. "Auntie's got a headache. Yes, Auntie, he's
very well; you'll see him in the morning. Go out at once, please,
Laurie."
Without a word he passed out, and, as she closed the door after him,
she heard him stop irresolute on the landing.
"My dearest child," came the peevish old voice, "you might have
allowed my own son--"
"No, no, Auntie, you really mustn't. I know how bad your head
is ... yes, yes; he's very well. You'll see him in the morning."
And all the while she was conscious of the figure that must be faced
again presently, waiting on the landing.
"Shall I go and see that everything's all right in his room?" she
said. "Perhaps they've forgotten--"
"Yes, my dearest, go and see. And send Charlotte to me."
The old voice was growing drowsy again.
Maggie went out swiftly without a word. There again stood the figure
waiting. The landing lamp had been forgotten. She led the way to his
room.
"Come, Laurie," she said. "I'll just see that everything's all right."
She found the matches again, lighted the candles, and set them on his
table, still without a look at that face that turned always as she
went.
"We shall have to dine alone," she said, striving to make her voice
natural, as she reached the door.
Then once more she raised her eyes to his, and looked him bravely in
the face as he stood by the fire.
"Do just as you like about dressing," she said. "I expect you're
tired."
She could bear it no more. She went out without another word, passed
steadily across the length of the landing to her own room, locked the
door, and threw herself on her knees.