At sight of Margot the Chieftain first beamed delight, and then screwed
his chubby face into an expression of concern.
"Halloa! What's up? You look pretty middling doleful!" cried he,
casting an eloquent glance towards the inn windows, then lowering his
voice to a stage whisper, "Macalisteritis, eh? Too much stuffy parlour
and domestic reminiscences? Never mind! Pack clouds away, and welcome
day! The sun is shining, and I have a packet of bull's eyes for you in
one pocket and a budget of letters in another. No, you don't! Not one
single one of them to read in the house--come and sit on a stone by the
tarn, and we'll suck peppermints and read 'em together. Wonderful how
much better you'll feel when you've had a good blow of fresh air. I was
prancing mad when I went out this afternoon, but now--a child might play
with me!"
He threw out his short arms with his favourite sweeping gesture, his
coat flapped to and fro in the breeze, he stepped out with such a jaunty
tread on his short broad feet, that at sight of him Margot's depression
vanished like smoke, and she trotted along by his side with willing
footsteps.
"That's better! That's better! Never saw you look melancholy before,
and never want to again... `Shocking disappearance of dimples! A young
lady robbed of her treasures! Thief still at large! Consternation in
the neighbourhood!' Eh! How's that? Young women who have been endowed
with dimples should never indulge in low spirits. It's a criminal
offence against their neighbours. Where's your brother?"
Margot laughed at the suddenness of the question. It was one of the
Chieftain's peculiarities to leap upon one like this, taking one
unawares, and surprising thereby involuntary revelations.
"I don't know," she answered truthfully. "Over the hills and far away,
I suppose--studying them in a new aspect. He loved them yesterday in
the rain; to-day he felt sure that it would clear, and he wanted to see
the mists rise. He does so intensely love studying Nature."
"Humph?"
Margot looked at him sharply, her head involuntarily assuming a
defensive tilt.
"What does `Humph' mean, pray?"
"Just exactly and precisely what it says!"
"It doesn't sound at all flattering or nice."
"Probably not. It wasn't intended to be."
"Mr Elgood, how can you! What can you have to say about Ron that isn't
to his credit? I thought you liked him! I thought you admired him!
You must see--you _must_--that he is different from other boys of his
age. So much more clever, and thoughtful, and appreciative!"
"That's where the pity comes in! It's pitiful to see a lad like that
mooning away his time, when he ought to be busy at football or cricket,
or playing tricks on his betters. What business has he to appreciate
Nature? Tell me that! At twenty--is it, or only nineteen?--he ought to
be too much engrossed in exercising his muscles, and letting off steam
generally, to bother his head about effects of sun and mist. Sun and
mist, indeed! A good wholesome ordinary English lad doesn't care a toss
about sun or mist, except as they help or hinder his enjoyment of
sport!"
"Ronald is not an `ordinary English boy'!"
"Hoity-toity! Now she's offended!" The Chieftain looked at his
companion's flushed cheeks with twinkling eyes, not one whit daunted by
her airs of dignified displeasure. "Don't want me to say what isn't
true, do you? He's a nice lad--a very nice lad, and a clever one into
the bargain, though by no means the paragon you think him. That's why
I'm sorry to see him frittering away his youth, instead of making hay
while the sun shines. He'll be old soon enough. Wake up some fine
morning to find himself with a bald head and stiff joints. Then he'll
be sorry! Wouldn't bother my head about him if I didn't like the lad.
Have a peppermint? It will soothe your feelings."
The parcel of round black bull's eyes was held towards Margot in
ingratiating fashion. It was impossible to refuse, impossible to
cherish angry feelings, impossible to do anything but laugh and be happy
in the presence of this kindest and most cheery of men. Margot took the
peppermint, and sucked it with frank enjoyment the while she sat by the
tarn reading her letters. Having received nothing from home for several
days, the same post had now brought letters from her father, Edith, and
Agnes, to say nothing of illustrated missives from the two small
nephews. Mr Vane's note was short, and more an echo of her own last
letter than a record of his own doings.
"Glad to know that you like your surroundings--pleased to hear that the
weather keeps fine--hope you will enjoy your excursion," etcetera,
etcetera.
Just at the end came a few sentences which to the reader's quick wits
were full of hidden meaning.
"Agnes is taking the opportunity of your absence to organise a second
spring cleaning. It seems only the other day since we were upset
before. I dined at the club last night. It is difficult to know what
to do with oneself on these long light evenings.--I would run away over
Sunday, if I could think of any place I cared to go to... Town seems
very empty."
"Poor dear darling!" murmured Margot sympathetically, at which the
Chieftain lifted his eyes to flash upon her a glance of twinkling
amusement. He made no spoken comment, however, but returned to the
perusal of his own correspondence, while Margot broke open the envelope
of Agnes's letter.
Two sheets of handwriting, with immense spaces between both words and
lines--"My dear Margot," as a beginning--"Your affectionate sister,
Agnes Mary Vane," as a conclusion. Thrilling information to the effect
that the charwoman was coming on Friday. Complaints of the late arrival
of the sweep. Information requested concerning a missing mat which was
required to complete a set. Mild disapproval of the Nag's Head Inn. "I
cannot understand what you find to rave about in such quarters." A sigh
of impatience and resignation was the tribute paid to this letter, and
then Margot settled herself more comfortably on the stone, and prepared
to enjoy a treat--a real heart-to-heart talk with her beloved eldest
sister.
Edith had the gift of sympathy. Just as Agnes never understood, Edith
always seemed able to put herself in another's place, and enter into
that person's joys and griefs. She herself might be sad and downcast,
but in her darkest hour she could always rejoice in another's good
fortune, and forget her own woes in eager interest and sympathy. Now,
sitting alone in the dreary lodging-house sitting-room in Oxford
Terrace, she was able mentally to project herself into the far-off
Highland glen, and to feel an ungrudging joy in the pleasure of others.
Never a hint of "How I envy you! How I wish I were there!" Not a
mention of "I" in obtruding, shadow-like fashion from first to last, but
instead, tender little anecdotes about the boys; motherly solicitude for
their benefit, and humble asking of advice from one younger and less
experienced than herself; an outpouring of tenderness for her husband,
and of a beautiful and unbroken trust and belief, which failure was
powerless to shake.
"Jack is working like a slave trying to build up the ruins of the old
business. It is difficult, discouraging work, and so far the results
are practically nil, but they will come. Something will come! More and
more I feel the conviction in my heart that all this trouble and
upheaval have been because God has some better thing in store for us
both. We have only to wait and be patient, and the way will open.--I
don't want to be rich, only just to have enough money to live simply and
quietly. We are so rich in each other's companionship that we can
afford to do without luxuries. Last night we had a dinner of herbs--
literally herbs--a vegetarian feast costing about sixpence halfpenny,
but with such lots of love to sweeten it, and afterwards we went out for
a stroll into the Park, and I wore the hat you trimmed, and Jack made
love to me. We _were_ happy! I saw people looking at us with envious
eyes. They thought we were a pair of lovers building castles in the
air, instead of an old married couple with two bouncing boys, having the
workhouse in much nearer proximity than any castle--but they were right
to envy us all the same. We have the best thing!"
The letter dropped on to Margot's knee, and she sat silent, gazing
before her with shining eyes, her face softened into a beautiful
tenderness of expression. For some time she was unconscious that her
companion had returned his own letters to his coat pocket, and was lying
along the ground, his head resting upon his hand, watching her with a
very intent scrutiny; but when at last her eyes were unconsciously drawn
towards him, she spoke at once, as if answering an unspoken question.
"What a wonderful thing love is!"
The Chieftain's light eyebrows were elevated in interrogation.
"In connection with the `dear darling' previously mentioned, if one may
ask?"
"That was my father. I love him dearly, but just now I was thinking of
the other sort of love. This letter is from my eldest sister. She was
a beautiful girl, and could have married half a dozen rich men if she
had wished, but she chose the poorest of them all, a dear, good,
splendid man, who has been persistently unsuccessful all the way
through. Everything--financially speaking, I mean,--has been against
him. They have had continual anxiety and curtailment, until at last
they have had to let their pretty house and go into dingy lodgings. My
father is very down on Jack. He is a successful man himself, and don't
you think it needs a very fine nature to keep up faith in a person who
seems persistently to fail? But my sister never doubts. She loves her
husband more, and idealises him more, than on the day they were
married."
"And you call that man unsuccessful?"
Margot hardly recognised the low, earnest tones: her quick glance
downward surprised a spasm of pain on the chubby face, which she had
always associated with unruffled complacency. It appeared that here
also lay a hidden trouble, a secret grief carefully concealed from the
world.
"Isn't that rather a misuse of the word? A man who has gained and kept
such a love can never be called a failure by any one who understands the
true proportions of life. With all his monetary losses he is rich...
And she is rich also... Richer than she knows."
Margot's hand closed impulsively on Edith's letter and held it towards
him.
"Yes, you are right. Read that, and you will see how right you are.
There are no secrets in it--its just a word-photograph of Edith herself,
and I'd like you to see her, as you understand so well. She's my
dearest sister, whom I admire more than anybody in the world."
Mr Elgood took the letter without a word, and read over its contents
slowly once, and then, even more slowly, a second time. When at last he
had finished he still held the sheet in his hands, smoothing it out with
gentle, reverent fingers.
"Yes!" he said slowly. "I can see her. She is a beautiful creature. I
should like to know her in the flesh. You must introduce us to one
another some day. I haven't come across too many women like that in my
life. It would be an honour to know her, to help her, if that were
possible." He sighed, and stretching out his hand laid the letter on
Margot's knee. "You are right, Miss Bright Eyes, love is a wonderful
thing!"
Margot glanced at him with involuntary, girlish curiosity, the
inevitable question springing to her lips before Prudence had time to
order silence.
"Do you--have you--did you ever--"
The Chieftain laughed softly.
"Have I ever been in love, you would ask! What do you take me for,
pray? Am I such a blind, cold-hearted clod that I could go through the
world for forty-five years and keep my heart untouched? Of course I
have loved. I do love! It was once and for ever with me--"
"But you are not--"
"Married? No! She died long ago; but even if she had lived she was not
for me. She would have been the wife of another man; a good fellow; I
think she would have been happy. As it is, we remember her together.
She was a bright, sunshiny creature who carried happiness with her
wherever she went... To have known her is the comfort of our lives--not
the grief. We have lived through the deep waters, and can now rejoice
in her gain... Do you know there is something about yourself which has
reminded me of her several times! That is one reason why I like being
with you, and am interested in your life. I should like you to think of
me as a friend, and come to me for help if you were ever in need of
anything that I could give."
The colour rushed into Margot's cheeks, and her heart beat with
suffocating quickness. Here was the opportunity for which she had
longed, offered to her without any preliminary effort or contriving on
her own part! The place, the time, the person were all in readiness,
waiting for her convenience. If through cowardice or wavering she
allowed the moment to pass, she could never again hope for another such
opening. Already the Chieftain was watching her with surprise and
curiosity, the softness of the last few minutes giving place to the
usual alert good-humour.
"Hey? Well! What is it? What's the trouble? Out with it! Anything I
can do?"
"Mr Elgood," said Margot faintly, "you are very good, very kind; I am
most grateful to you. I hope you _will_ help me, but first there is
something I must say... I--I have been deceiving you from the
beginning!"
"What's that?" The Chieftain sat up suddenly and stared at her beneath
frowning brows. "Deceiving me? _You_? I don't believe a word of it!
What is there to deceive me about, pray? You are not masquerading under
a false name, I suppose? Not married, for instance, and passing
yourself off as single for some silly school-girl freak?"
"Oh no! Oh no! Everything that I have told you about myself is true,
absolutely true."
"I knew it. You are not the sort that could act a lie. What's all the
fuss about, then?"
"What I have told you is true, but--but--I have not told you _all_!"
"I should think not, indeed! Who expected that you should? I am not at
all sure that I care to hear it."
"Oh, but--I want to tell you!"
The Chieftain chuckled with amusement. He was evidently comfortably
convinced of the non-importance of the forthcoming revelations, and
Margot's courage suffered another ebb as she returned his unsuspicious
glance.
"I--we--we knew that you were staying at the Nag's Head!"
The Chieftain cocked a surprised eyebrow, startled but unresentful.
"You knew that we were here, before you arrived, and met us in the
flesh? Is that so? I wonder how you heard! I make it a rule to keep
my holiday plans as secret as possible, for the very good reason that a
holiday _is_ a holiday, and one wants a change of companionship as well
as scene. How in the world did you hear that we were bound for
Glenaire? I'm curious!"
Margot's eyelids fell guiltily, but Nature had generously endowed these
same lids with long black lashes, the points of which curled up in a
manner distractingly apparent when shown in contrast with a flushed pink
cheek; so it happened that instead of being hardened by the sight, the
Chieftain drew a few inches nearer, and smiled with genial approval.
"Well, out with it! _How_ did you hear?"
"I--asked!"
"Asked?" The brow became a network of astonished wrinkling. "You
asked? Whom did you ask? And why? What did you know about us, to give
you interest in our comings or goings? This grows curiouser and
curiouser! I imagined that we were as absolute strangers to you as you
were to us."
"It--it--there was the magazine--it was because of the magazine."
"Oh, indeed! You knew the name through the magazine! I understand!"
The Chieftain straightened himself, and the laugh died out of his eyes.
For the first time in the history of their short acquaintance Margot saw
his face set in firm, hard lines, the business face which had been left
at home, together with the black coats and silk hats of City wear, and
seeing it, trembled with fear. But it was too late to retreat; for
better or worse she was bound to go forward and complete her half-
finished revelations.
"I wanted to get to know your brother, because he is the editor of the
_Loadstar_, and I had heard people say that he was the most powerful
literary man in London; that if he chose to take up any one who was
beginning to write he could do more to help than any one else. We know
no literary people at home, and I wanted to. Badly!"
"I see! Just so. Written a novel, and want help to get it into print,"
returned the Chieftain slowly. He had drawn down his lips into an
expression of preternatural gravity, but the hard look had disappeared.
The murder was out, and he was not angry; he might pretend to be, but
Margot was too sharp-witted to be frightened by a pretence.