Aubrey Bellingham was in the hall at the Grange when Margaret, all wet
and weary, came in from that journey to the post-office. She was very
anxious to get to the shelter of her own room, not only because she was
feeling ill and wretched, but for the more immediately important reason
that she was feverishly anxious to get rid of her wet dress before Jean
should see her; for Margaret knew that Jean would more easily forgive a
slight moral backsliding than her dishevelled appearance, blown about
by the wind and soaked by the rain, and not without traces of the mud.
She was ashamed of her own plight, though she had been too tired and
had felt too miserable the latter half of the road, to keep up the
struggle with the elements. Her feet made a splashing noise upon the
tiles as she came in, and were cold as two pieces of lead; so were
the hands, with one of which she had tried to keep up her umbrella,
till it was blown inside out, when she gave up the struggle. A faint
glimmer of anger rose in her when she saw Aubrey, all trim and dry and
_point devise_ as he always was, evidently waiting for her with
the intention of speaking to her in the hall.
“How wet you are!” he said; “I could not believe my eyes when I saw you
out in this rain. Could nobody have gone to the village instead of you?
Why did you not send me?”
“Oh, _you_, Mr. Aubrey? It would have been worse for you than
me,” said Margaret. “_I_ never thought much of the weather; but
I cannot wait now to talk. I must run and change my dress. Jean,” she
added, ruefully looking at her spoiled trimmings, “will be angry about
the crape.”
“I hope I managed rightly,” he said, following her to the stair. “I
hope I did what you wanted?”
Margaret gazed at him with blank, wide-open eyes. What had he done? She
had forgotten the silent appeal she had made to him in her pain. Aubrey
was a man of sense, and he perceived that to insist upon this good
office which he had in reality done out of pure good-nature, without
any thought of interest, was more likely to hurt than to help him now;
so he added hurriedly, “I did not see how wet you are; I cannot detain
you an instant longer. Why didn’t you send me? You will be ill after
this.”
“Oh! I never take cold,” said Margaret; but how glad she was to
struggle up-stairs, holding up the clinging skirts of her wet dress.
Fortunately, Mrs. Bellingham, who had a thorough instinct of comfort,
kept fires in all the bedrooms, so that Margaret had the glimmer of a
little brightness to console her in the bodily misery which for the
moment prevailed over all the distresses of her mind. She took off
her wet clothing with great haste, and with an impulse to hide it,
to keep it from Jean’s keen eyes; and when she “was fit to be seen,”
she sat down to think how she could explain that hurried errand to
Jean. The post-bag went from the Grange twice a day, in a regular
and orderly manner, as it ought. What need had she to rush through
the rain with her letters? But this problem proved too much for poor
Margaret’s brain: her head kept getting hotter and hotter; her feet,
notwithstanding the fire, would not get warm; her bosom seemed bound
as by an iron chain; she could not get her breath. What could be
the matter with her? Jean had said she had a cold on the previous
night; she supposed it must be that--a bad cold; how stupid and how
wretched she felt! She sank back into the corner of the sofa which
was opposite the fire; it was very lazy of her to do so, she knew,
in broad daylight, when there was all the day’s work to do. Margaret
planned to herself that she would do it to-morrow--her practising and
her French exercises, and all the little studies with which, under Mrs.
Bellingham’s energetic guidance, she was making up for her neglected
education. She would do them to-morrow--yes, to-morrow; but was not
to-morrow Sunday, when you cannot work? Was not night coming, in which
you could do no work? Was not-- Here Margaret seemed to break off with
a start, and found that she had been dozing, dozing in the middle of
the day, in broad daylight! It seemed impossible. She woke wretched, as
young and healthy creatures do after such a feverish sleep. How could
anybody sleep in the day? and how, of all wonders, was it that Margaret
herself had slept in the day? It seemed something incredible; but
before she knew what was coming, in those troubled wanderings, she had
dropped again into another snatch of uncanny sleep. She did not hear
the luncheon bell, nor if she had heard it would she have had energy
enough to go down-stairs, or, indeed, to get up from her seat; and when
Miss Leslie, coming up, hurried into the room, in wonder and alarm, to
call her, Margaret was found propped up in the corner of the sofa, all
flushed and confused, her pretty hair falling out of its fastenings,
her hands hot and feverish. She woke with a start when her sister
opened the door. “Oh! where am I? where am I?” she cried.
After this there was nothing but alarm in the house. The doctor
was sent for, and Miss Grace, who had cried herself almost into
hysterics, and could do nothing but kiss her little sister, and ask,
in a melancholy voice, “Are you better--do you think you are a little
better, darling Margaret?” was turned out and sent away, while Jean
hastily took the place of nurse. If Jean had a fault as a nurse, it
was that she required so many preparations. She assured Margaret it
was nothing at all but a feverish cold, and that it would be better
to-morrow; but she provisioned the room, as John had provisioned old
Sir Ludovic’s, as for a siege of six weeks at least, and took her place
in a dressing-gown and large cap by the bedside, like a woman who
had made up her mind to hold out to the end. Margaret, however, was
too ill to be alarmed by these precautions; she was too ill to mind
anything except the pain which had her by the throat, and checked her
breathing and filled her veins with fire. It was not a bad cold only,
but that sublimation and intensification of cold which carries death
and destruction under the name of congestion of the lungs. She was
very ill for a week, during which time Mrs. Bellingham kept heroically
by her bedside, resolute to keep out Grace and to fight the malady in
the correct and enlightened way. Aubrey had to search through all the
adjoining town, from shop to shop, for a thermometer good enough to
satisfy his aunt, which she received from his hands in all the mingled
solemnity and familiarity of her nursing-dress.
“I am sure the Red Cross has nothing half so imposing,” he said, in
his flippant way; “you would strike an army with awe.” He himself
had but a dull time of it down-stairs. He remained till Margaret was
out of danger--very kindly solicitous--but when the crisis was over
he withdrew. “You see I can make no progress now,” he said, on the
occasion of an interview which Mrs. Bellingham awarded him, when the
good news was proclaimed; “but perhaps a week or two hence I may come
in with the chicken and champagne, and help to amuse the convalescent.
One may make a great deal of running with a convalescent, Aunt Jean.”
“I wonder how you can talk so lightly, when we have just escaped such a
danger,” said Mrs. Bellingham. “Not only Margaret, poor dear, but the
property would have gone to quite a distant branch of the family, and
even the savings of the minority. I can’t bear to think what might have
happened. But you can do nothing now, it is true; you may as well go
and return when you will be of use. But mind and go to the very best
shop you can find in town, and get me a really good thermometer. I put
no faith in anything that is bought in the country.” And that night,
for the first time, Mrs. Bellingham permitted herself to go to bed.
It would be needless to follow Margaret through all the feverish
thoughts that assailed her, or even those more coherent ones that came
after the first stupor of illness. She recovered the power of thought
now and then by intervals, as the fever abated, and then, no doubt,
soft, dreamy musings, half dismal, half pleasant, of a pretty grave
somewhere which would cut all the knots that bound her, and make all
things clear, came into her mind. If she were to die, how little would
it matter whether Jean was angry, whether Ludovic scolded! They would
all forgive her, even if she had been silly. And though poor Rob, to
whom her heart melted, as the one person whom she felt sure (besides
Bell) to be very fond of her, would, no doubt, “break his heart” over
that grave of hers, it would, she thought, be less hard for him, than
to find out how little pleasure she took in the bond between them, and
to bear the brunt of that struggle which she had so little heart to
encounter--the struggle with Ludovic and Jean. And then another thing:
what would it matter if Aubrey were right after all, and it was really
Effie, _Effie_ that Randal Burnside cared about? They would be
happy, no doubt; and they would sometimes give a sigh to poor little
Margaret, and tell each other that they never thought she would live
long.
This wrung Margaret’s heart with an exquisite pity for her poor young
tender self, cut down like a flower. And as the fever recurred, she
would lose herself in wonderings where they would bury her; if they
would take her down to the Kirkton, and lay her with her father in
the breezy mound where she would be able to see her own hills, and
hear, on stormy nights, the moaning of the sea? And then it would
seem to Margaret that she was being rolled and jolted through a
vast darkness going toward that last home of the Leslies--dead at
eighteen, but yet feeling and seeing everything, and half pleased with
the universal pity. Over all these wanderings of sick and feverish
fancy Jean presided in her big cap, the shadow of which against the
wall--sometimes rigidly steady, with a steadiness that only Jean could
possess, sometimes nodding so that Margaret trembled, feeling that
nothing could survive so great a downfall--ran through them all. Jean,
in her big cap, was very tender to the girl. She was very quiet in her
movements, and, notwithstanding the nodding of the cap, very vigilant,
never forgetting an hour or dose.
The strangest week it was!--the time sometimes looking not an hour,
since she had begun to doze in the corner of the sofa, sometimes
looking like a year, during which she had been wandering through
dreariest wilds of confusion and pain. When she came to herself at
last, without any choking, without any suffering, but utterly weak and
passive, Margaret did not quite know whether she was glad that she was
better, or disappointed to feel that everything outside her was just of
as much consequence as ever; that she would have to marry Rob Glen, and
submit to Jean’s scolding, and wonder if it was true about Randal and
Effie--just the same.
But she did not recover in the speedy and satisfactory way which was
desired. When she got what her anxious attendants called almost well,
and got up and with an effort got herself dressed, it was astonishing
to find how few wishes she had. She did not want anything. She did not
care about going down-stairs, did not want to get out, and was quite
content to be let alone in her corner of the sofa, reading sometimes,
still oftener doing nothing at all. At this point of her convalescence
it was that Jean had retired, leaving the remainder of the nursing
to Grace, who, with a great grievance at her heart on the score of
being shut out of the sick-room, took the place now offered her with
enthusiasm, and did her best to administer the wines and jellies, the
beef-tea, the concentrated nourishment of all kinds which were wanted
to make her charge strong again. One day, however, Jean, returning
from some outside occupation, found the sick-room in a grievous state
of agitation. Margaret had fainted, for no particular cause that any
one knew; and Grace and Miss Parker stood weeping over her, scarcely
capable of doing anything but weep.
“Her mother, bless her, was just like that,” Miss Parker was saying. “I
often thought afterward if we had taken her abroad for the winter it
might have been the saving of her. The doctor said so, but no one would
believe it. Oh, if we had only taken her abroad!”
This was said in the intervals of fanning Margaret, who lay extended
on the sofa as pale as marble, while Grace held salts to her nose.
Margaret came to herself as her sister came into the room, with a
shiver and long sigh, and Jean, rushing in, cleared away the two
incapable persons and resumed the charge of affairs. But, like a
wise woman, she took a hint even from her inferiors. When she had
restored poor Margaret and made all quiet and comfortable round her,
and ordained that she was not to talk or be talked to, Jean’s heart
throbbed with terror. Not only did Margaret herself seem in renewed
danger, but there was the estate to be considered, which would go away
to a distant cousin, and do no one (as Mrs. Bellingham said) any good.
When the doctor came, she consulted him with great anxiety on the
subject. “Yes,” the doctor said; “no doubt it would be very good for
her to go to Mentone for the winter.” He would not say she was in any
particular danger now, but delicate, very delicate; all the Sedleys had
been delicate, and it must not be forgotten that her mother died young.
All this made Jean tremble. The girl herself, though she had been
almost a stranger to her a little while ago, had got hold of her fussy
but kind nature. She had nursed Margaret successfully through a serious
illness; was she to submit to have her snatched out of her hands now
for no reason at all, with no disease to justify the catastrophe? Jean
said No stoutly. She would not submit.
“My dear, I am going to take you to Mentone,” she said. “I hope you
will like it. It is very pretty, you know, and all that. There are a
great many invalids; but, poor things, they can’t help being invalids.
I am very sorry we sha’n’t enjoy Christmas at the Court; that is a
thing that would have done you good. But, to be sure, as we are still
wearing deep mourning, we could only have gone to the family parties,
which are not very amusing. Grace, you may as well begin your packing;
you always take such a time. I am going to take Margaret to Mentone.”
“Oh!” cried Grace, ready to cry, “dearest Jean! then the doctor thought
that dear Margaret--”
“The doctor thought nothing about Margaret,” cried Mrs. Bellingham.
“The doctor thought what I told him. I said Mentone would do the child
good after her illness, and all that has happened, and he agreed, of
course. That is all they can do. They tell you to go if they think you
will like it. If they think you will not like it, they recommend you to
stay at home. I’ll take Aubrey with me: he will always amuse Margaret.”
“And, dearest Margaret, how good it is of dear Jean to settle it all!
Do you think you will like--”
“Like! of course she will like it,” said Jean. “We shall start in a
week; so you had better speak to Steward about your packing. A day will
do for Margaret and me.”
“Mentone? that is Italy!” said pale Margaret, with a little glow rising
upon her face; and then she put her pale little hands together, which
were as small as a child’s, and said to herself, inaudibly, “That is
_away_!”
She got a little better from that hour. All the circumstances of her
bondage, all the risk of discovery, the chance of agitating letters,
such as those which had been the cause of the exposure that had ended
in her illness, had come rushing back upon her memory. And it was a
sudden intimation of some letters that had been put aside for her that
had caused her faint, overpowering her, in her weakness, with sudden
agitation. Letters! What might they be? She dared not ask for them.
She dared not say anything about them in case of questions which she
could not answer. He might be coming, for aught she knew, to haunt the
neighborhood of the house, to watch for her, to waylay her, to claim
and take possession of her, whether she liked or not. It is not to be
described what a soft gush of ease and relief and quiet came over her,
when she realized that she was now to be taken _away_. Away! out
of reach of all painful visitors, where it would be too far for him
to come after her, where she would be safe. Margaret mended from that
hour. And when, by means of Miss Parker, of whom she was not afraid,
she managed that evening, while Jean and Grace were at dinner, to get
possession of the letters, and found one from Bell giving an account
of the execution of her commission, and another from Randal, her heart
threw off its burden, although Randal’s letter filled her with strange
yet pleasant excitement. She was not frightened by it as she had been
by Rob’s letter, but felt, on the contrary, a great thrill of eagerness
and wonder. Would he say anything about Effie? This, however, was all
Randal said:
“DEAR MARGARET,-- If I may call my old playfellow so, I got
your message, and thank you most cordially for it. I understood it,
though I did not know what you wanted me to do. But I will tell you
what I did. I saw him: he was anxious and complaining. I advised him
to have patience, not to attempt to write, which would probably put
you in a false position, and offered him a place in my uncle’s office.
He has accepted, and he will take my advice. If this is not what you
meant, let me know by one word. I thought it was for the best; but if
silence is disagreeable to you, it is I that am to be blamed, not any
one else. Thank you, with all my heart, for understanding that I would
serve you, if there was any need, with my life. Yours ever,
“RANDAL BURNSIDE.”
How her heart bounded! She seemed to have found some one who would set
things right, who would manage those disturbed affairs for her. It
did not occur to her that she had no right to put such a charge upon
Randal, or make him her agent. That idea never entered her mind. How
well he had divined what she wanted! The way in which he told her of it
was very curt and brief, it is true, and she felt disposed to wonder
why he had put it in such few words; but it relieved her of all her
fears. It was in Randal’s hands now. Randal would not let _him_
come to worry her. Randal would save her from all this trouble. Jean
heard her laugh, as she was coming up-stairs--heard her laugh, the
little monkey! and Mrs. Bellingham was so glad that she could not be
angry, though had this outburst happened twenty-four hours sooner, she
probably would not have taken her away.
And she was quite equal to the journey when the day came, though she
was still weak and white. One incident occurred, however, before they
started, which very much surprised Margaret. She was in the wainscot
parlor, alone, reclining among her cushions, when Mr. St. John came in.
The elder ladies were out, and Margaret had been left alone. Perhaps it
was Miss Grace who had suggested this to the gentle Anglican. He came
in and sat down beside her, with eyes enlarged by emotion and anxiety;
and after he had told her how much sympathy her illness had brought
out, and how many people had asked for her, and how fervently they had
all thought of her when the prayer for sick persons came in the Litany,
Mr. St. John startled Margaret beyond measure by suddenly telling her
that he loved her, and asking if she would be his wife. “Me?” she
cried, with wondering, questioning eyes, in profoundest bewilderment
and surprise, and with her usual Scotch indifference to her pronouns.
She grew paler than ever with horror. “Oh, it cannot be me!” she said,
shaking her head. But this gave her a shock of surprise and pain. She
did not want to hurt anybody’s feelings. Could it be anything in her
that made this painful thing happen over again?