Robert McGinnis was not dead when he was tenderly lifted from his
box-like prison, but he was still unconscious. In spite of their
marvelous escape from death, both he and his employer were suffering
from breaks and bruises that would call for the best of care and nursing
for weeks to come; and it seemed best for all concerned that this care
and nursing should be given at the Mill House. A removal to Hilcrest in
their present condition would not be wise, the physicians said, and the
little town hospital was already overflowing with patients. There was
really no place but the Mill House, and to the Mill House they were
carried.
At the Mill House everything possible was done for their comfort. Two
large airy rooms were given up to their use, and the entire household
was devoted to their service. The children that had been brought there
the night of the fire were gone, and there was no one with whom the two
injured men must share the care and attention that were lavished upon
them. Trained nurses were promptly sent for, and installed in their
positions. Aside from these soft-stepping, whitecapped women, Margaret
and the little lame Arabella were the most frequently seen in the
sickrooms.
"We're the ornamental part," Margaret would say brightly. "We do the
reading and the singing and the amusing."
Arabella was a born nurse, so both the patients said. There was
something peculiarly soothing in the soft touch of her hands and in the
low tones of her voice. She was happy in it, too. Her eyes almost lost
their wistful look sometimes, so absorbed would she be in her
self-appointed task.
As for Margaret--Margaret was a born nurse, too, and both the patients
said that; though one of the patients, it is true, complained sometimes
that she did not give him half a chance to know it. Margaret certainly
did not divide her time evenly. Any one could see that. No one,
however--not even Frank Spencer himself--could really question the
propriety of her devoting herself more exclusively to young McGinnis,
the man she had promised to marry.
Margaret was particularly bright and cheerful these days; but to a close
observer there was something a little forced about it. No one seemed to
notice it, however, except McGinnis. He watched her sometimes with
somber eyes; but even he said nothing--until the day before he was to
leave the Mill House. Then he spoke.
"Margaret," he began gently, "there is something I want to say to you. I
am going to be quite frank with you, and I want you to be so with me.
Will you?"
"Why, of--of course," faltered Margaret, nervously, her eyes carefully
avoiding his steady gaze. Then, hopefully: "But, Bobby, really I don't
think you should talk to-day; not--not about anything that--that needs
that tone of voice. Let's--let's read something!"
Bobby shook his head decidedly.
"No. I'm quite strong enough to talk to-day. In fact, I've wanted to say
this for some time, but I've waited until to-day so I could say it.
Margaret, you--you don't love me any longer."
"Oh--Bobby! Why, _Bobby_!" There was dismayed distress in Margaret's
voice. When one has for some weeks been trying to lash one's self into a
certain state of mind and heart for the express sake of some other one,
it is distressing to have that other one so abruptly and so positively
show that one's labor has been worse than useless.
"You do not, Margaret--you know that you do not."
"Why, Bobby, what--what makes you say such a dreadful thing," cried the
girl, reaching blindly out for some support that would not fail. "As
if--I didn't know my own mind!"
Bobby was silent. When he spoke again his voice shook a little.
"I will tell you what makes me say it. For some time I've suspected
it--that you did not love me; but after the fire I--I knew it."
"You knew it!"
"Yes. When a girl loves a man, and that man has come back almost from
the dead, she goes to him first--if she loves him. When Frank Spencer and
I were brought into the hall down-stairs that Wednesday morning, the jar
or something brought back my senses for a moment, just long enough for
me to hear your cry of 'Frank,' and to see you hurry to his side."
Margaret caught her breath sharply. Her face grew white.
"But, Bobby, you--you were unconscious, I supposed," she stammered
faintly. "I didn't think you could answer me if--if I did go to you."
"But you did not--come--to--see." The words were spoken gently, tenderly,
sorrowfully.
Margaret gave a low cry and covered her face with her hands. A look that
was almost relief came to the man's face.
"There," he sighed. "Now you admit it. We can talk sensibly and
reasonably. Margaret, why have you tried to keep it up all these weeks,
when it was just killing you?"
"I wanted to make--you--happy," came miserably from behind the hands.
"And did you think I could be made happy that way--by your wretchedness?"
There was no answer.
"I've seen it coming for a long time," he went on gently, "and I did not
blame you. I could never have made you happy, and I knew it almost from
the first. I wasn't happy, either--because I couldn't make you so.
Perhaps now I--I shall be happier; who knows?" he asked, with a wan
little smile.
Margaret sobbed. It was so like Bobby--to belittle his own grief, just to
make it easier for her!
"You see, it was for only the work that you cared for me," resumed the
man after a minute. "You loved that, and you thought you loved me. But
it was only the work all the time, dear. I understand that now. You see
I watched you--and I watched him."
"Him!" Margaret's hands were down, and she was looking at Bobby with
startled eyes.
"Yes. I used to think he loved you even then, but after the fire, and I
heard your cry of 'Frank'----"
Margaret sprang to her feet.
"Bobby, Bobby, you don't know what you are saying," she cried
agitatedly. "Mr. Spencer does not love me, and he never loved me. Why,
Bobby, he couldn't! He even pleaded with me to marry another man."
"He pleaded with you!" Bobby's eyes were puzzled.
"Yes. Now, Bobby, surely you understand that he doesn't love me. Surely
you must see!"
Bobby threw a quick look into the flushed, quivering face; then hastily
turned his eyes away.
"Yes, I see," he said almost savagely. And he did see--more than he
wanted to. But he did not understand: how a man _could_ have the love of
Margaret Kendall and not want it, was beyond the wildest flights of his
fancy.