The children followed me to my room, wondering where I could have been
so late. I said I was tired, and begged them to leave me alone. Then I
locked my door, and a solitary hour of anguish passed. The fever of
uncertainty would not let me weep; I suffered without much sign, but in
such a degree as I had never dreamed of before.
There was something horrible that I had to realise and could not. John
hurt and dying away from his home, without one by to comfort him,
without his mother's blessing, without a whisper to tell him that I had
loved him and would mourn for him all my life! John vanished from the
earth--lost to us for ever! The sickly moonlight fell about me with a
ghastly peace, and the horror of death froze my heart.
Tea-hour arrived, and the girls knocked at the door. Mrs. Hollingford
came to me, questioning me anxiously, and pressing my burning temples
between her cool palms; and there I lay under her hands, crushed with my
cruel secret. I could not tell it. Not that night. When the worst must
be known it would be my place to help them all in their agony; and was I
fit for such a task now? Besides, there was still a hope, and I clung to
it with wild energy.
They left me for the night, thinking I slept, but when the clock struck
five I wrapped myself in a cloak, and went out and down the avenue. I
was half afraid of the ghostly trees, so black against the snow, but I
was more in terror of the melancholy corners of my own room, the
solitary light, the dreary ashes in the grate. I walked as far as the
gate, and even ventured out on the road, hoping to see some wayfarer
coming past who might be able to tell me something of the accident. I
tried to consider how far it might be to the nearest wayside cottage,
where I might possibly learn some news that might break the awful
suspense. But my head was confused, and I suppose I did not calculate
the distance rightly, for after I had walked a mile I could see no
dwelling. The morning was breaking now, and the world looked pallid and
dreary. Suddenly my strength failed, I felt faint and dizzy, and sat
down upon a heap of stones, drawing my cloak over my face. My thoughts
became broken and confused, and my senses numb, I remained, lost in a
sort of stupid dream of trouble, I do not know how long, when the touch
of a hand on my shoulder made me start, and a voice said, "What is the
matter with you, my poor woman?"
It was a man's voice--a familiar voice; my children, it was the voice of
John Hollingford. With a cry I flung back the cloak from my face.
"John!--John!" I cried, and grasped him by both hands. There he stood
unhurt. I burst into a fit of weeping, though not a tear had I shed all
the while I had pictured him lying dead or dying. "I thought I never
should have seen your face again except in the coffin!"
I sobbed in my joy, hardly knowing what I said.
"Margery!" he said. "Is this all for me?"
"I cannot help it," I said. "I ought, but I cannot. No one knows but me.
I heard it last night--"
"You are killing yourself sitting here in the cold," said John. "You are
nearly frozen to death." He wrapped my cloak round me, and drew my arm
through his.
"Who told you of the accident?" he said.
"Mrs. Beatty."
"She might have kept her own counsel till to-day. Several poor fellows
have been killed, but many escaped, like myself, unhurt. And so you kept
it from my mother, and you grieved for me. Margery, may I ask again that
question I asked you the night before I went away? If it pains you, say
nothing."
"You may ask it."
"And what will you answer?"
"Anything you like."
"And you do not want to go to London?"
"Not unless you turn me out of doors."
"My darling!" he said. And so we became engaged there upon the snow.
How wonderful the sun rose that morning. How I walked home through
Paradise, forgetting that there was such a thing as suffering in the
world. How the girls hugged me when they knew all. How Mrs. Hollingford
smiled upon us. And how sweet the honey and rice-cakes tasted at
breakfast. It was arranged that, all things considered, we had better
not be married for a year.
I remember our gathering round the fire that evening, the curtains
unclosed, the mild moonshine behind the window, the room half black
shade and half red light, the dear faces beaming round. That evening I
wrote my letter to Grace Tyrrell to say that I should not go to London.
That evening, also, there came a letter from Mr. Hill to John, saying
that he hoped to arrive at the Hall on the morrow or next day. At tea we
talked about Rachel Leonard. Thinking of her, the scene at the party
came vividly back--the occasion on which I had defended Mr. Hollingford
so hotly; and also my conversation with Grace Tyrrell on the subject in
the carriage coming home. After musing a little while, I said:
"John, are you quite sure that you never met Miss Leonard when you were
abroad?"
"Quite," said John, looking at me curiously. "Why do you ask me that
question so often, Margery?"
"Have I asked it often?" I said, "I don't remember; but I fancied from
her manner that she knew something about you."
"It is not likely," said John, "for I know nothing about her." And so
this matter dropped.