Chapter Eleven.

An Awkward Meeting.

Being a prudent damsel, and wise in her day and generation, Margot set before herself the subjugation of Mrs McNab as her first duty in Glenaire. To this end she repaired to her bedroom after breakfast on the morning after her arrival, made her bed, carefully put away every article of clothing, and tidied the oddments on the dressing-table; went through the same performance in Ron’s little crib adjoining her own, and sailed downstairs in a glow of virtuous satisfaction.

Mrs McNab had apparently only one maid to help her to attend to her eight guests and to keep the inn in its present condition of immaculate order and cleanliness, though a shaggy-headed man—presumably the master of the house—could be seen through the staircase window, meekly brushing boots, and cleaning knives in a corner of the flagged yard. He had a small, wizened face, to which the unkempt hair, tufted eyebrows, and straggling whiskers gave a strong resemblance to a Skye terrier dog. Margot watched him now and then for a minute or two as she passed up and down, and heard him speaking once or twice, but he “had the Gaelic,” and the sing-song voice and mysterious words sounded weirdly in her ears. Sometimes, as he put the final polish on the boots, he would break into song,—a strange, tuneless song which quavered up and down, and ended on long-sustained notes. Once even she saw the slippered feet move in jaunty dance-step to and fro, but at the sound of a clatter of saucepans from the kitchen close at hand he retired into his corner, and polished with redoubled energy. Mrs McNab evidently kept her husband in order, even as she did her house!

Elspeth, the maid, was a girl of eighteen or twenty, with a thin figure encased in a lavender print gown, and flaxen hair pulled so tightly back from her forehead that her eyebrows seemed to be permanently elevated by the process. Her face shone from the effects of constant soaping, and was absolutely void of expression. From morn till night she rushed breathlessly from one duty to another, rated continuously by Mrs McNab’s strident voice, with never so much as a bleat of protest. When waiting at table, she snored loudly from nervousness, and the big red fist trembled as she carried the dishes to and fro, but her face remained blankly expressionless as before. Margot smiled at her radiantly every time that they met, and mentally decided to bequeath to her half her own wardrobe before leaving the Glen. In comparison with such a lot of drudgery, her own life seemed inexcusably idle and self-indulgent!

It took a considerable amount of courage to beard in her own den a woman of whom the members of her own household stood in such evident awe, but there was at least no nervousness apparent in Margot’s manner as she tapped at the kitchen door at eleven o’clock that first morning, and thrust her pretty face round the opening to request permission to enter. Mrs McNab had descended from her work upstairs, and surely her heart must be softened by the spectacle of those two immaculately tidy rooms!

“Mrs McNab, I’m cold! May I come in and warm myself by your fire?”

The mistress of the inn turned a stonily surprised face from the table, before which she stood chopping suet with a short-handled knife; she did not suspend her work, but simply heightened her voice to make it heard above the harsh, monotonous noise.

“Cold, are ye? Havers! It’s a fine June day. There’s no call for any one to feel cold, if they don’t sit about idling away their time. Put on yer cloak, and go a turn down the Glen!”

Margot suppressed a thrill of indignation at that accusation of idleness. Had she not made two whole beds, and even stooped to pick stray pins off the carpet? She pushed the door open and walked boldly forward.

“I’ll go out as soon as I’m warm. If I caught a chill, I should give a lot of trouble, and you have enough to do without fussing over me. I know you would be a good nurse, Mrs McNab—good housekeepers always are. I know without being told that you have a cupboard chock full of medicines and mixtures, and plasters and liniments, and neat little rolls of lint and oilskins. Is it this one?” She laid her hand on a closed door, drawing the while nearer and nearer to the fire. “What a perfectly beautiful oak chest! That’s genuine! One can see it at a glance. The lovely elbow-grease polish can never be imitated. So different from the faked-up, over-carved things glittering with varnish that one sees so often nowadays. What a shame to keep it hidden away in the kitchen!”

Mrs McNab pounded stolidly away at the suet.

“I dinna ken where the shame can be!” she responded drily. “It’s my own chest, and my mither’s before me, and it’s a pity if I mayna keep it where it pleases meself. There’s no call that I know of to turn out my things, so that ither folks can have the fun of staring at them!”

Mrs McNab’s manner was certainly the reverse of gracious, but, remembering the momentary softening of the grim face which she had witnessed the night before, Margot was determined not to be easily discouraged. Having gone so far, one could not retreat without irrevocably burning one’s boats. Now or never victory must be wrested from the enemy!

With a charming little air of domesticity she seated herself upon the polished fender-stool at the side of the open grate, catching up her skirt so that it should not be caught by the blaze, and smiling across the room in her most confiding fashion.

“Please let me stay, Mrs McNab! It’s such a lovely cosy kitchen, and my brother is out, and I feel so lost! Couldn’t I do something to help? Are those gooseberries in that basket? Do they need picking? I can’t cook, but I can pick gooseberries with any man living. Do let me! You said I was idling away my time. Give me a chance to work!”

Mrs McNab grunted sourly.

“There’s no call for you to do anything of the sort. I never was one to take work upon myself that I couldna perform. The girl would have picked them before now, if she didna go about making more work than she gets through. She can do them when she gets downstairs!”

Poor, struggling, machine-like Elspeth! Margot felt a pang of pity for her unappreciated efforts, and the determination to spare her one task at least brought with it renewed courage.

“Let me do them as a pleasure to myself! I should feel so proud when the pie came to table, if I had helped to prepare it, and it would be an excuse to sit by this lovely fire. Please?”

“Kitchen work is no for the likes of you. Ye wouldna like it if ye soiled yer fine new gown!”

“If I asked you very nicely, perhaps you would lend me an apron!”

Mrs McNab threw down her chopper, and turned to wipe her hands on a roller towel. Perhaps she had come to the conclusion that as a pure saving of time it would be wise to give in without further demur; perhaps the twinkling appeal of the brown eyes touched a vulnerable spot in her heart; perhaps the service itself was of some value at the moment.

Margot did not concern herself as to causes, but was content to realise that she had won the victory. She meekly allowed herself to be tied into a coarse white apron, and set to work on the big basket of berries with nimble fingers. Picking gooseberries is not a task which requires much skill or experience; perhaps quickness is the criterion by which it can best be tested, and Mrs McNab’s sharp glances soon discovered that her new apprentice was no laggard at the work. The little green balls fell from Margot’s fingers into the basin with quite extraordinary quickness. She kept her eyes on her work, but her tongue wagged.

Margot talked, and Mrs McNab grunted, but the grunts grew ever softer and less repellent. The first attempt at a joke was met with a sniff of disdain, but a second effort produced a dry cackle, and that was a triumph indeed! When the suet had been reduced to shreds, there was bread to sift, and eggs to beat; and then Mrs McNab washed her hands and dropped her working apron preparatory to going upstairs to see after “the girl.” She made no demur at leaving Margot alone in the kitchen, for, having undertaken a task, she was plainly expected to carry it through.

It was astonishing how much fruit one basket could hold! One wide-lipped basin had already been filled, and another pressed into the service, yet even a vigorous tilt to the side failed to show any signs of the bottom of the basket. Margot had achieved her double purpose of warming herself and breaking the ice of her hostess’s reserve, and now was in a fidget to be off to join Ron on the hillside; but the fear of Mrs McNab was strong upon her, and she dare not move until her task was complete.

There she sat upon the low fender-stool, the big white apron concealing the blue tweed dress, her pretty, flushed face bent over her work, to all appearances the most industrious of Cinderellas, while the pendulum of the old oak clock clicked noisily to and fro, and through the open door came a whiff of clean cool air, laden with the scent of flowers and sweet-briar, with the pungent aromatic odour of growing herbs, with the heavy sweetness of the dairy.

Margot thought with a shudder of the gloomy underground regions in Regent’s Park, where the servants of the house spent the greater part of their lives. In her own future spells of authority she determined to be very, very indulgent to pleas for “outings”; nay, even to make it a matter of duty to plan days of sunshine and liberty for the patient, uncomplaining workers.

The sun was beginning to peep forth from behind the clouds, and its rays dancing across the kitchen floor were an almost irresistible temptation to one newly escaped from town. Margot gave the basket an impatient shake, and, as another means to the desired end, popped a couple of berries into her mouth. So sweet did they taste, so fresh and ripe, that another two soon followed suit, and henceforth she ate as steadily as she worked. There could be no hesitation in so doing, for in fruit-picking it is an unwritten law that the worker is free to take his toll.

It was while Margot’s hand was raised to her mouth for the eighth or ninth time that a footstep sounded on the flagged floor of the scullery behind her back, and a man’s voice and laugh startled her into vivid attention. In both was a note which immediately recalled her companion of the night before,—the cheery, warm-hearted pseudo-chieftain of the Glen—yet in both rang a difference which told that the newcomer was not he, but probably one closely connected by birth and association.

The Mr Elgood; the Editor; the all-powerful dispenser of Ronald’s fortunes! Margot felt convinced that it could be no one else, and experienced a moment of keen anticipation, followed by a shock of disgust, as she grasped the meaning of his words.

“Ah-ha! So I’ve caught you pilfering again. What will Mrs McNab say when she finds all her good fruit disappearing like this? You’ll have to bribe me not to carry tales. Better turn me into a confederate—eh? Are they ripe?”

A long thin hand descended over Margot’s shoulder, the fingers deliberately feeling after the plumpest and yellowest of the berries. He had mistaken her for Elspeth! Stupefaction mingled with wrath,—Elspeth! A vision of the square-built, flat-headed, hopelessly graceless figure rose before Margot’s outraged vision, and resentment lighted into a blaze. Could any apron in the world be large enough to cause a resemblance between two such diametrically different figures! Margot appreciated her own beauty in an honest, unaffected fashion, as one of the good gifts which had been showered upon her, and for the moment the sense of injury eclipsed that of embarrassment.

With an impetuous movement she turned her face over her shoulder—that vivid pink and white face which made such a startling contrast to Elspeth’s stolidity—and stared with widely-opened hazel eyes into that other pair of eyes so near her own.

It was the younger Mr Elgood sure enough,—but seen close at hand, with that mischievous smile curling his lips, he had an extraordinary youthful and boyish appearance. Margot received an instantaneous impression of kindliness and strength, of a glinting sense of humour, before the change came. Such a change! If she had been a wild animal prepared to spring, horror and dismay could not have been more eloquently depicted upon his face. The eyes widened, the features stiffened into a mask, the outstretched hand fell limply to his side. He opened his lips to say something, several things, but the words were unintelligible; a mere broken stammer of apology, as he wheeled round and walked hastily from the room.

The door slammed behind him; she heard his footsteps over the flagged hall. Poor Margot! Never before in her life had she so keenly desired to make a good impression; never had she so signally failed. It was indeed an unpromising beginning to the campaign!

Chapter Twelve.

A Moorland Walk.

A second time that day Margot came into close contact with Mr George Elgood. She was strolling slowly up and down the road with “the Chieftain,” waiting for Ron to make his appearance before starting for a ramble over the countryside, when through the doorway of the inn out dashed the “Editor,” making in the same direction, in the headlong, unseeing fashion which was plainly a characteristic. When about twenty yards distant, he lifted his eyes from the ground, became suddenly conscious of the two figures slowly strolling towards him, stopped short in the middle of the path, and, wheeling round, darted quickly in the opposite direction.

The cut was too glaring to be ignored. Margot’s cheeks flamed with annoyance, which the sound of a low chuckle by her side did not help to subdue. She reared her little head to its haughtiest angle, and spoke in frosty accents.

“I am afraid I am in the way. Pray don’t let me interfere with your plans. Won’t you join your brother before he goes too far? He is walking very fast—”

There was a note of satire in the last words which made the Chieftain chuckle once more.

“Not I,” he replied easily. “I can have his society any time I like. Yours is infinitely more refreshing. Keeps up a pretty good pace, don’t he? Scared, you know. Scared to death! Running to cover like a frightened hare!”

“Scared of what?”

“Of you?”

Margot had known the answer to the question before she had put it, but, woman-like, was none the less affronted. Accustomed to be sought after and admired by mankind in general, it was a disagreeable experience to find herself repelled by the man of all others whom she was most anxious to ingratiate. Her face stiffened, and her rounded little chin projected itself proudly, the while her companion looked on with twinkling amusement.

“That makes you feel pretty mad, don’t it?” he inquired genially. “You are not accustomed to that sort of treatment. Most of ’em run the other way, don’t they? I should, in their place! But you mustn’t be hard on old George. When I said ‘you,’ I used the word as a plural, not as applying with any special significance to your charming self. It is womankind as a whole which he finds terrifying. Run a mile any day rather than meet a woman face to face! You must not imagine that there is anything unusual in his avoidance of yourself. It’s always the same tale.”

Margot paused a moment, to reflect dismally that in this case there was small hope for the fulfilment of her scheme, then ventured the natural feminine question—

“Has he been crossed in love?”

“Who? George?” George’s brother appeared to find something mysteriously ludicrous in the suggestion, for he shook with delighted laughter. “Rather not! Never had enough to do with a woman to give himself a chance. He’s an old hermit of a bachelor, Miss Vane, absorbed in his work, and becoming more of a slave to it every year of his life. Even on a holiday he can’t take it easy like other folks. He has some writing on hand just now—a paper of sorts which he has undertaken to have ready by a certain time, and it appears to his benighted intellect that a holiday is an excellent opportunity of getting it through. Mad, you see; stark, staring mad, but an excellent fellow all the same. One of the very best. I have a large experience of men, but I’ve never met one to compare with him for all-round goodness and simplicity of heart. We all have our failings, and there are worse things than a little shyness and reserve. If he avoids you like the plague, try to pity him for the loss it entails upon himself, and take no offence! As I said before, it’s not a personal matter. He knows that you are a stranger and a woman, but I don’t suppose he has the most glimmering idea of what you are really like!”

“Oh yes, he has. I was sitting in the kitchen this morning, and he came and spoke to me under the impression that I was Elspeth! The impression lasted until he got quite near. I was wearing an apron, but still,—I wasn’t pleased! When he saw my face instead of hers, he fled for his life. But he did see it! He knows quite well what I am like.”

“And in the depths of your little girl heart you think he is a strange fellow, not to want to see you again! You can’t understand why he should go out of his way to be kind to Elspeth, and avoid some one infinitely more attractive. Don’t be offended, but that’s a wrong view to take of the case. In my brother’s eyes Elspeth is more attractive than yourself, for she is poor, you see, and ugly, and leads a life of all work and no play. He might be able to do her a good turn. Besides, he has known her for several years, and has had time to become reconciled to her existence, so to speak. Custom goes a long way with shy people. George would rather beard a den of lions than face the company in the inn parlour on a wet evening, but he is a welcome guest in the kitchen, and Mrs McNab adores him to the extent of submitting to muddy boots without a murmur. He cracks jokes with her in a free-and-easy manner which strikes awe into the heart of tremblers like myself. It’s my first visit to the Nag’s Head, and I’m still in the stage of abject submission. She’s a wonderful woman!”

Margot smiled with returning composure. She divined her companion’s desire to change the subject of conversation, and was quite willing to further his efforts. What she had already heard concerning George Elgood supplied ample food for meditation.

Viewed in dispassionate light, it was not wholly disconcerting, for if the citadel could but once be stormed, there seemed a certainty of gaining sympathy and consideration. She must be content to wait in patience, until the hermit had become reconciled to her existence; but Ron, as a fellow-man, could venture on advances on his own account.

She must talk to Ron in private, and try to instil into him some of her own energy and enterprise. He was a dear, wonderful fellow, but absolutely wanting in initiative. Poets, she supposed, were always dreamy, impracticable creatures, unfitted to attend to practical interests, and dependent upon the good offices of some adoring woman working meekly in the background.

Her eyes brightened eloquently as she watched her brother’s approach along the winding path. What a handsome young figure of manhood he made in his Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, the close-fitting deerstalker cap showing the light chestnut hair, from which no barber’s shears could succeed in banishing the natural kink and curl. No one would suspect, to look at him, that he cherished poetical ambitions! Margot was English enough to be thankful for this fact, illogical as it may appear. She was proud to realise that he looked a thorough sportsman, and in absolute harmony with his surroundings, and instinctively her pride and affection voiced themselves in words. The Chieftain might not be the rose, but he was at least near the rose, and it would be well to enlist his interest as well as that of his brother.

“Doesn’t he look splendid?”

Mr Elgood started, and for a moment his round face expressed the blankest bewilderment, then his eyes lit upon Ron, and comprehension dawned.

“Ah, yes,” he returned indifferently, “nice-looking lad! Pity he hasn’t more to say for himself. What’s he supposed to do? Business or profession?”

“It’s not decided. He has not long come down from Cambridge. He is quiet, but he is very clever, all the same. Much cleverer than most boys of his age.”

“Humph!” The Chieftain’s tone was distinctly sceptical. “Yes! Good degree?”

Margot’s colour heightened in embarrassment.

“Nothing special. Only a pass. It isn’t in that way that his cleverness shows.”

“Just so! Just so! I’ve met men like that before. Well, don’t spoil him, that’s all. Worship him in your heart, but not to his face. Looks to me as if he needed hardening up. A bit moony and sentimental. What? Don’t mind my saying so, do you?”

“Not a bit!” returned Margot proudly; but she cared horribly, all the same, and for the moment her liking for her companion suffered a distinct eclipse. “I know him, you see, and understand him as no stranger can do. He needs appreciation, for he is too apt to lose faith in himself, and he is not sentimental at all. He has plenty of sentiment, but that’s a different thing!”

“Yes—Um!” responded the Chieftain mischievously, his little eyes twinkling with amusement as they scanned the girl’s flushed, injured face. “Quite so! Sorry I spoke. He is, without doubt, an unusually gifted young man.” He bowed towards Margot, with an inference too transparent to be mistaken, and at which she was obliged to laugh, despite herself.

Ronald joined them at this moment, and looked from one to the other with his big, dreamy eyes. Margot was irritated to see that he looked even more absent-minded than usual, just when she was anxious that he should show to most advantage. He asked no questions in words, however, but Mr Elgood hastened to reply to the unspoken query in his eyes.

“Your sister and I have been having an argument. I don’t know how it came about. Hate arguments myself, especially on a holiday. Besides, it’s a waste of time. Whoever knew any one converted by an argument? Each one goes away more satisfied than ever that he is in the right, and that his opponent is talking rubbish; present company excluded, of course. So far as I can remember, we were discussing cleverness. If you were asked for a definition of a clever man, what would you say? How would you describe him?”

Ronald stood in the centre of the road, his hands clasped behind his back, his brows knitted in thought. Ninety-nine people out of a hundred would have answered such a question off-hand with a few light words; Ron bent the weight of his mind to it, with whole-hearted earnestness.

“Cleverness!” he repeated slowly. “It’s a poor word! There’s no depth in it. When a man is called clever, it means, I think, more an ability to display a superficial knowledge than any real, stored-up wisdom. It may even be a double-edged compliment!”

“Scored!” cried the Chieftain gaily, as he waved his stick in the air, and led the way forward with a jaunty tread. “Proposed, seconded, and carried that cleverness is a delusion to be sedulously avoided! Just what I always said. I’ve known clever people in my day—squillions of them, and, my hat! how stupid they were! That little lass dabbling in the lake is wiser than the whole crowd.” He pointed to a fair-haired child wading by the side of the tarn. “The spirit of childhood—that’s what we want! the spirit of joy in present blessings, and untroubled trust for the future. That little lass has a life of hardship and toil ahead—but what does she care? The sun shines to-day, and the funny wee mannie fra the inn is going to gie her a bawbee for goodies. It’s a bad habit which he has fallen into; a shocking bad habit, but he canna cure himself of it.” He threw a penny to the smiling, expectant child, then turning sharply to the left, led the way across the low-lying ground towards the base of the nearest hill.

Margot noticed that, as he went, he turned from time to time quick, scrutinising glances at Ron’s face, as though trying to satisfy a doubt, and classify him in his own mind. Evidently the lad’s serious, somewhat pedantic manner of replying had invested him with a new interest, but when he spoke again it was only in reference to the afternoon’s expedition itself.

“I am not going to take you far,” he announced. “I object to walking, on principle. What I maintain is, that we were never intended to walk! If we had been, we should have had four legs, instead of two. I never walk if I can possibly induce something else to carry me. And climbing is another mistake. What is it that one admires about mountains? Their height and grandeur! Very well, then, where is the point of vantage from which to view them? The base, of course. Climb up to the top, and you lose the whole effect, to say nothing of chucking away your valuable breath. See that little path winding up the slope? That leads to the moors, and when you are once on the moors you can walk about on the level all day long, if you are so disposed, and the air goes to the head of even a lazy old fellow like myself, and makes me quite gay and frisky. You two youngsters can go on ahead and engage in light conversation, while I puff along in the rear. At my age and bulk even the most witty conversation palls when climbing a hillside. When you get to the end of the footpath sit down and wait till I arrive, and take no notice of me till I get my wind. Then we’ll start fair. Off with you!”

Margot ran forward, laughing, and she and Ron were soon scrambling up the hillside, side by side.

“That’s a good fellow. I like him! He will be very interesting when one gets beneath the surface,” pronounced the boy thoughtfully.

Margot nodded emphatically.

“I’m going to love him! I feel it in my bones, and he is going to love me too, but unfortunately he’s the wrong man. He says that his brother hates women, and will do all he can to avoid me, so you must take things into your own hands, Ron! I can’t help you, so you must help yourself. You will have to cultivate his acquaintance, and get him to take you about, and talk to him, and try to get intimate. You will, won’t you? Promise me that you will!”

She looked with anxiety into the lad’s face as she spoke, for previous experience had proved that Ron possessed the full share of those failings which are most characteristic of his temperament: a sudden cooling of interest at critical moments; a shirking of responsibility, an inclination to drift. It was a part of the artistic nature, which had an irritating effect on more practical mortals. Now, as she feared, he remained as placidly unmoved by the intelligence as if it had no bearing whatever on his own prospects.

“Oh, all right. I’ll see! You can’t rush things, if a fellow keeps out of your way. Our opening will come in time, if we leave it to chance and don’t worry. I believe I am going to do really good work here, Margot! I had an idea last night, after you had gone to bed, and I was watching the stars through the pines. I won’t read it to you yet, for it wants working up, but it’s good—I am sure it is good! And that little stream along from the house; I found a song motif in that,—‘Clear babbling over amber bed!’ How’s that for a word-picture? Shows the whole thing, doesn’t it? The crystal clearness of the water; the music of its flow, the curious golden colour of the rocks. I’m always pleased when I can hit off a description in a line. I’m glad we came, Margot! There’s inspiration in this place.”

But for once Margot refused to be sympathetic.

“You did not come for inspiration, you came for a definite, practical purpose; and if you write a hundred poems, it won’t make up for neglecting it. Now, Ron, wake up! I shall be angry with you if you don’t do all you can for yourself. Promise me that you will try!”

“All right! All right! Do let us be happy while we have the chance, Margot. We had enough worry at home, and this place is perfect. Let us be wise children, and take no thought for the morrow. What would Elgood think of you, beginning to worry about the future, the moment his back was turned? She was a pretty illustration, wasn’t she?—that little bare-headed child. Did you notice her hair? Almost white against the russet of her skin.”

Margot grunted unsympathetically. She was out of breath with scrambling up the hillside, a trifle out of temper also, and consequently not in the mood to enthuse over artistic contrasts. She did not speak again until the summit was reached, and she threw herself on the ground to rest, and wait the arrival of the Chieftain. His gasps and grunts could already be heard in the distance, for, notwithstanding his various handicaps, he was surprisingly nimble, and in a few moments a round scarlet face hove into sight, and a round grey body rolled over on the ground by her side.

“Piff! piff! whew–w! Don’t look at me, please—I don’t like—being stared at by ladies—when my—complexion is flushed!” he gasped brokenly, mopping his face with a large silk handkerchief. “Every time—I—come up here—I vow I’ll—never come again; but when I’m once up, I—never want to go down!”

He flourished his handkerchief to the left, pointing out the wide moorland, beautiful in colouring with its bright rank greens, and the bloomy purple of heather undulating gently up and down like the waves of an inland sea.

The pure rarefied air fanned the heated faces of the climbers, and with every moment seemed to instil fresh life and vigour. It was easy to believe that, once started, one would wander on and on over this wonderful moorland, feeling no fatigue, possessed with the desire to go farther and farther, to see what surprise lay beyond the next hillock.

After all, it was Mr Elgood who made the first start. One moment he lay still, puffing and blowing, bemoaning past youth, and bewailing loss of strength; the next, like an indiarubber ball, he had bounced to his feet, and was strutting forward, waving his short arms in the air, the white silk handkerchief streaming behind him like a flag.

“Allons, mes enfants! No lolling allowed on the moors. Keep your eye on that green peak to the right, and make for it as straight as a die. A few hundred yards away is a cottage where, if we are very polite and ask prettily, the guid-wife will give us a cup of buttermilk, the Gaelic substitute for afternoon tea. In a certain spot, which shall be nameless, I should as soon think of drinking poison in glassfuls, but after a stretch on the moors it tastes like nectar! Take my word for it, and try!”

That was the first walk which Ron and Margot had ever taken over a Scotch moor, and to the last day of their lives they remembered it with joy. The air went to their heads so that they grew “fey,” and sang, and laughed, and teased each other like a couple of merry-hearted children, while the Chieftain was the biggest child of the three.

At times he declared that he was tired out and must turn back, but hardly were the words out of his mouth, than, lo, he was dancing an impromptu hornpipe with astonishing nimbleness and dexterity! He took a lively interest in all that his companions did and said, and did not hesitate to put question after question in order to arrive at a fuller understanding of any case in point; but London, and all that took place in London, remained a forbidden topic. He was the Elgood of Elgood, and they were “his bonnie men,” and life outside the Highlands had ceased to exist.

Margot was delighted that the little man should have a chance of seeing Ronald in one of his lightest, most boyish moods, for from the expression of his face she feared that he had not so far previously been favourably impressed by the lad’s personality. Now it was impossible not to admire and laugh as Ron played imaginary bagpipes on the end of his walking-stick, or droned out lugubrious ballads in imitation of a strolling minstrel who had visited the inn the night before. The ballad dramatised the circumstances of the moment: the perilous ascent, the wandering of three strangers across the moor, the flowing bowl which was to refresh and strengthen them for the return journey. Ron’s knowledge of the native dialect was so slight that he fell back upon the more stately phraseology of the early English poets, introducing a strange Scotch term now and again with irresistibly comic effect.

The two listeners cheered him on with bursts of delighted laughter, while at an unexpected clever turn, or apt stringing together of words, the Chieftain would clap his hands and caper with delight.

“Good! good!” he would cry. “Neat! neat!” while his twinkling eyes surveyed the boy with increasing respect. “Do you often improvise?” he asked, when the ballad came to an end, and when Ron replied truthfully enough in the negative, “Well, I have heard many fellows do it worse!” was his flattering comment.

Margot had expected more, and felt that more was deserved, for the ballad had been quite a brilliant effort to be rattled off on the spur of the moment, but she could only hope that, in conclave with his brother, the Chieftain might be more enthusiastic, and manage to impress upon that absent-minded genius that the boy was worthy of his notice and study.

In due time—a very short time, as it appeared—the cottage was reached owned by the “guid-wife,” who was ready to give—not sell—draughts of buttermilk to the passers-by. Margot was a little chary of the first taste, but the keen moorland air had done its work, and she too found it as nectar to the palate. The guid-wife “had no English,” but the two women conversed eloquently with the language of the eyes, concerning the sleeping baby in its cradle, and the toddling urchins around the door. Here in the solitude this brave woman of the people reared her family, made their garments, tended them when they were sick, cooked for them, baked for them, washed for them, mended for them, and kept the three-roomed cot as exquisitely clean as hands could make it. The girl who dusted the drawing-room and arranged a few vases of flowers as her duty in life, gazed at her with awe, and felt ashamed of her own idle existence!

The buttermilk quaffed, Mr Elgood led the way to a thick patch of heather some few hundred yards nearer home, came to a standstill, and, spreading his handkerchief under his head, lay down with great deliberation and crossed his arms in beatific content.

“Now, if you want to discover what comfort means, find a soft patch for yourselves, and take a nap before we start for home. No upholsterer on earth ever manufactured a mattress to equal a bed of heather. If you don’t want to sleep, kindly keep your distance, and enjoy yourselves with discretion, for if I’m awakened in the middle of my siesta, nothing short of murder will appease me!”

He shut his eyes even as he spoke, and composed himself with a sigh of content. Margot, nothing loath, took off her cap, and, spreading her cape over the bushes, nestled contentedly into its folds. Ron scorned the idea of sleep, but as he was curious to test the comforts of the heather, down he lay in his turn; and so soft, so springy, so eminently luxurious did the new bed appear, that he felt no desire to rise. Presently his eyes dropped, rose heavily once or twice, and rose no more. Margot’s head burrowed more deeply into her cape. Deep regular snores sounded from the bush where Mr Elgood reposed. All three were fast asleep!

The sun shone on them; the hum of a thousand insects rose from the grass; high in the air a lark trilled his triumphant song. It was rest indeed to sleep and dream in such surroundings!

Chapter Fourteen.

Music hath Charms.

For the next two days it rained incessantly, and Margot sat in the little parlour of the inn talking to Mrs Macalister, or rather listening while Mrs Macalister talked, and playing draughts with Mr Macalister, who had relapsed into hopeless gloom of mind, and was with difficulty prevented from rushing home by the first train.

“The doctor said we were to keep him from the office for a good month at least, and there’s not three weeks of the time gone by. If he goes back now, what will be the use of spending all this money on travelling and keep, and what not? It will be all clean waste,” sighed the poor dame sadly. “He’s a bit fratchety and irritable, I’m free to admit, but you should not judge a man when his nerves are upset. There’s not a better man on earth than Mr Macalister when he has his health. It’s dull for a man-body to be shut up in an inn, without the comforts of home, and feeling all the time that there’s money going out. It is different when he can be out and about with his fishing and what not.—If you could just manage to amuse him a bit, like a good lassie!...”

The good lassie nodded reassuringly into the troubled, kindly face.

“I’ll do my best. I have an old father of my own, who has nerves too, and I am used to amusing him. I’ll take Mr Macalister in hand till the weather clears.”

It was not a congenial task, for, truth to tell, Mr Macalister was not a beguiling object, with his lugubrious face, lack-lustre eyes, and sandy, outstanding whiskers; nor did he in the first instance betray any gratitude for the attention bestowed upon him. A stolid glance over his spectacles was his first response to Margot’s overtures; his next, a series of grunts and sniffs, and when at last he condescended to words it was invariably to deride or throw doubt on her statements.

“Tut, nonsense! Who told you that? I would think so, indeed!” followed by another and more determined retreat behind the Glasgow Herald.

In the corner of the room Mrs Macalister sat meekly knitting, never venturing a look upwards so long as her spouse was in view, but urging Margot onward by nods and winks and noiseless mouthings, the moment that she was safe from observation.

It had its comic side, but it was also somewhat pathetic. These two good commonplace souls had travelled through life together side by side for over thirty years, and, despite age, infirmity, and “nearves”, were still lovers at heart. Before the wife’s eyes the figure of “Mr Macalister” loomed so large that it blocked out the entire world; to him, even in this hour of depression, “the wife” was the one supreme authority.

Fortunately for herself and her friends, Margot was gifted with sufficient insight to grasp the poetry behind the prose, and it gave her patience to persevere. Solution came at last, in the shape of the wheezy old piano in the corner, opened in a moment of aimless wandering to and fro. Margot was no great performer, but what she could play she played by heart, and Nature had provided her with a sweet, thrush-like voice, with that true musical thrill which no teaching can impart. At the first few bars of a Chopin nocturne Mr Macalister’s newspaper wavered, and fell to his knee. Margot heard the rustle of it, slid gradually into a simpler melody, and was conscious of a heavy hand waving steadily to and fro.

“Ha-ha!” murmured Mr Macalister, at the end of the strain. “Hum-hum! The piano wants tuning, I’m thinking!” It was foreign to his nature to express any gratification, but that he had deigned to speak at all was a distinct advance, and equal to a whole volume of compliments from another man.

“Maybe,” he added, after a pause, “if ye were to sing us a ballad it would be less obsearved!”

So Margot sang, and, finding a book of Scotch selections, could gratify the old man by selecting his favourite airs, and providing him with an excuse to hum a gentle accompaniment. Music, it appeared, was Mr Macalister’s passion in life. As a young man he had been quite a celebrated performer at Penny Readings and Church SoirÉes, and had been told by a lady who had heard Sims Reeves that she preferred his rendering of “Tom Bowling” to that of the famous tenor. This anecdote was proudly related by his wife, and though Mr Macalister cried, “Hoots!” and rustled his paper in protest, it was easy to see that he was gratified by the remembrance.

Margot essayed one Scotch air after another, and was instructed in the proper pronunciation of the words; feigning, it is to be feared, an extra amount of incapacity to pronounce the soft “ch,” for the sake of giving her patient a better opportunity of displaying his superior adroitness.

Comparatively speaking, Mr Macalister became quite genial and agreeable in the course of that musical hour, and when Margot finished her performance by singing “The Oak and the Ash,” he waxed, for him, positively enthusiastic.

“It’s a small organ,” he pronounced judicially, “a ve–ry small organ. Ye would make a poor show on a concert platform, but for all that, I’m not saying that it might not have been worse. Ye can keep in tune, and that’s a mearcy!”

“Indeed, Alexander, I call it a bonnie voice! There’s no call for squallings and squakings in a bit of a room like this. I love to hear a lassie’s voice sound sweet and clear, and happy like herself, and that’s just the truth about Miss Vane’s singing. Thank ye, my dear. It’s been a treat to hear you.”

The broad, beaming smile, the sly little nod behind Mr Macalister’s back, proclaiming triumph and delighted gratitude—these sent Margot up to her room heartened and revived in spirits, for there is nothing on earth so invigorating as to feel that we have helped a fellow-creature. The sunshine came back to her own heart, even as it was slowly breaking its way through the clouds overhead. She thrust her head out of the window, and opening her mouth, drank in great gulps of the fresh damp air, so sweet and reviving after the mouldy atmosphere of “the parlour.” Over the mountain tops in the direction from which the wind was blowing the clouds were slowly drifting aside, leaving broader and broader patches of blue. Blue! After the long grey hours of rain and mist. The rapture of it was almost beyond belief! A few minutes more, and the glen would be alight with sunshine. She would put on boots, cap, and cape, and hurry out to enjoy every moment that remained.

The strong-soled little boots were lifted from their corner behind the door, and down sat Margot on the floor, school-girl fashion, and began to thread the laces in and out, and tie them securely into place. Then the deerstalker cap was pinned on top of the chestnut locks, and the straps of the grey cape crossed over the white flannel blouse. Now she was ready, and the sunshine was already calling to her from without, dancing across the floor, and bringing a delicious warmth into the atmosphere.

Margot threw open the door and was about to descend the narrow staircase, when she stopped short, arrested by an unexpected sound. Some one was singing softly in a room near at hand, repeating the refrain of the ballad which she had taken last on her list. The deep bass tones lingered softly on the words—

“And the lad who marries me,
Must carry me hame to my North Coun–tree!”

George Elgood was echoing her song in the seclusion of his own room! He had been indoors all the time, then, listening to her while she sang! Margot’s cheeks grew hot with embarrassment, yet in the repeated strain there was a suggestion of appreciation, of lingering enjoyment which did away with the idea of adverse criticism.

“Oh, the Oak and the Ash,”—the strain seemed to swell in volume, growing ever nearer and nearer. “And the lad who marries me—”

The door flew open, and they stood facing one another, each framed as in a picture in the lintel of the doorways, divided only by a few yards of boarded passage. The strain came to an abrupt conclusion, frozen upon his lips by the shock of surprise and embarrassment. For the third time in their short acquaintance Margot looked straight into his eyes; for the third time recognised in their depths something that in mysterious fashion seemed to respond to a want in her own nature; for the third time saw the lids drop, heard an unintelligible murmur of apology, and watched a hasty retreat.

For a moment Margot stood motionless, an expression of wounded pride clouding the young rounded face, then very slowly descended the staircase, traversed the length of the “lobby,” and stood outside the door, looking anxiously to right and left.

There he was, a strong, well-built figure in knickerbockers and Norfolk coat striding rapidly up the hill path to the right,—trying, no doubt, to put as much distance as possible between himself and the objectionable girl who seemed ever to be appearing when she was not wanted. For a long minute Margot stood gazing miserably ahead, then turning resolutely to the left, came face to face with the Chieftain returning from the village with his pockets bulging with papers.

His sudden appearance at this moment of depression had a peculiar significance to the girl’s mind. Doubt crystallised into resolution; with a rapid beating of the heart she determined to grasp her courage in both hands, and boldly make the plunge which she had been meditating for some days past.

Chapter Fifteen.

Revelations.

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.

She drew a sigh of relief as she replied—

“No, indeed. Couldn’t to save my life. It’s—Ron! I was thinking of him, not of myself. He is a poet!”

The Chieftain groaned aloud, as if in pain.

“Oh, I know you won’t believe it, but he is! He writes wonderful poems. Not rhymes, but poems; beautiful poems that live in your mind. He will be another Tennyson or Browning when he is a little older.”

The Chieftain groaned again, a trifle more loudly than before.

“It’s true! It really is true. You must have seen yourself that he is different from other boys of his age. You heard him reeling off those impromptu lines the other day, and said how clever they were! I have seen you looking at his face when he has been thinking out some idea. I knew what he was doing, and you didn’t; but you guessed that he was different from ordinary people.”

“I saw that he was mooning about something, and wondered if he was right in the head! If he’d been my boy, I should have taken care to keep his nose so close to the grindstone that he would have no time to moon! Poet, indeed! Didn’t you tell me that your father was a successful business man? What is he about, to countenance such nonsense?”

“He doesn’t!” replied Margot sadly. “No one does but me, and that’s why I had to act. Father agrees with you. He doesn’t care for books, and looks down upon literary men as poor, effeminate sort of creatures, who know nothing of the world. He is ashamed that his only son writes verses. Ron detests the idea of business, but he has had to promise father that he would go into his office if at the end of a year he had had no encouragement to persevere in literature. But how is a young unknown poet to make himself known? The magazines announce that they can accept no unsolicited poetical contributions; the publishers laugh at the idea of bringing out a book by a man of whom no one has heard. A boy might be a second Shakespeare, but no one would believe in him until they had first broken his heart by their ridicule and unbelief. The year is out in September, so matters were getting desperate, when at last I—thought of this plan! I felt sure that if a man who was a real judge of literary power met Ron face to face, and got to know him, he would realise his gifts, and be willing to give him a chance. It was no use trying in London in the midst of the full pressure of work, but in the country everything is different. I knew a man who knew a man in the office of the Loadstar, and asked him to find out your brother’s plans—”

As she was speaking Margot was conscious of a succession of stifled chuckles which her companion vainly tried to suppress. The Chieftain’s amusement had evidently overmastered his threatened displeasure, and when at length she paused, he burst into an irresistible guffaw of laughter, rubbed his hands together, and cried gleefully—

“Stalked him! Stalked him! Poor old George! Big game, and no mistake. Ran him to earth... Eh, what? Bravo, bravo, Miss Bright Eyes! You are a first-class conspirator.”

He laughed again and again, with ever-increasing merriment, laughed till his eyes disappeared in wrinkles of fat, till the tears streamed helplessly down his cheeks. His portly form shook with the violence of his merriment; he kicked the air with his short, fat feet.

Margot stared at this strange exhibition in an amazement, which gradually changed into annoyance and outraged dignity; so that when at last the Chieftain sat up to mop his eyes with a large silk pocket-handkerchief, he beheld a very dignified young lady sitting by his side in a position of poker-like rigidity, with her head tilted to an expressive angle.

“Sorry!” he panted hastily. “Sorry I smiled. A compliment, you know, if you look at it in the right light. It’s such an uncommonly good idea, and so original. ‘The Stalking of the Editor’—eh? Well, now that you have made such a rattling good beginning, why don’t you go on and prosper? Here you are; there he is; the field is your own. Why don’t you go in and win?”

Margot’s face fell, and her haughty airs vanished, as she turned towards him a pair of widely-opened eyes, eloquent with plaintive surprise.

“But I can’t! How can I, when he runs away the moment I appear? I made Ron go fishing with him one day, but he went off and left him alone, and now it’s no use persuading any more. Ron says it is only waste of time! As for me, I have hardly spoken a word to him all this time, though I feel that if I did really know him, I—” she hesitated, knitting her brows, and pursing her soft red lips—“I could make him understand! I decided at last to confide in you, because you have been so kind and friendly to us from the first that I felt sure you would be willing to help. You will, won’t you? Even if personally you don’t approve of a literary career, will you give Ron a chance of living his life in his own way? If your brother approved of his writings, and helped him to a beginning, even the very smallest beginning, father would be satisfied that he was not wasting his time.”

The Chieftain clasped his hands around his knees, and sat staring at her with thoughtful gaze. His eyes rested upon the clear childlike eyes, the sweet lips, the broad, honest brow, as though studying them in a new light, and with regard to some problem suddenly presented to the mind. Whatever was the question waiting to be decided, the answer was self-evidently favourable, for his eyes lightened, he stretched out an impetuous hand, and laid it upon her arm.

“Right!” he cried heartily. “Right! I’ll help you! The lad’s a good lad, and a clever lad; but what I do will be for your sake, not his! You are a dear girl! The dearest girl I have ever met—save one! For the sake of the bit of her that lives again in you, I am at your service. You shall have your chance. From to-day forward I will see to it that George makes a member of our party wherever we go. He has done enough writing; it is time that he began to play. Make him play, Miss Vane! He has been old all his life; teach him to be young! He is the best fellow in the world, but he is fast asleep. Wake him up! There is just one condition, and that is, that you leave your brother and his scribblings alone for the time being! Don’t mention them, or any question of the sort, but be content just to show yourself to George, your own bright, natural girl-self, as you have shown it to me. Learn to know one another, and forget all about the boy. His turn will come later on! You promise?”

“Ye–es!” faltered Margot shyly. “Yes, I do; but you must promise too—that you will, that you won’t, won’t let your brother think—”

The Chieftain touched her arm once more, with a gesture of kindly reassurement.

“Don’t you worry, little girl! He shall have no thoughts about you that are not altogether chivalrous and true. It’s not you who are going to move in this matter, remember! You’ve given it over into my hands; it is I who am to pull the strings. No, you needn’t thank me. It strikes me that we are going to work out pretty even over this business. If you want help for your brother, I need it just as badly for mine. I have realised for a long time that he needed a medicine which no doctor could supply.” He looked into her face with a sudden radiant smile. “It strikes me I might have searched a very long time before finding any one so eminently fitted to undertake his cure!”

Chapter Seventeen.

The Picnic.

Every one agreed that there never had been such a picnic, that it was impossible that such a picnic would ever occur again. In those northern regions it is a rare joy to find a day that is a very incarnation of summer; hot, yet not too hot; bright, yet not glaringly oppressive; a day when even the old and ailing feel it a joy to be alive, and the young and strong unconsciously break into song, and find it impossible to curtail their footsteps to a staid walking-pace.

George Elgood’s “fairy dell” stood in a gorge between two mountains; a strip of velvet green grass sheltered from the wind, such as the monks of old loved to select as the site of the monasteries whose ruins are still to be seen scattered over our land. The Editor had discovered this retreat, and mentally adopted it as his own, keenly resenting the intrusion of strangers; yet to-day he stood surrounded by hampers and impedimenta, playing host to every guest in the inn, and, wonder of wonders! conscious of an unusual sense of satisfaction in so doing.

Up the winding path they appeared, one by one, the clergyman and his son arriving first of all, hot and breathless after climbing a record distance in a record time. Next Mrs Macalister, red and shiny of face, holding up her skirts to display a pair of large, flat-heeled boots. By her side the originator of the expedition, the genial Chieftain, walking with his usual springy tread, twirling aloft an umbrella which he fondly believed to be sheltering the good dame from the rays of the sun, but which never approached much nearer to her head than a couple of yards. Next, Ronald walking alone, as his custom was; thinking his own thoughts, and gazing around with eyes quick to behold that deeper vision which is revealed only to the chosen few. The boy poet, young, strong, and ardent, with his life ahead, and following him with weary tread the tired-out man of the world, weighed down with a sense of his own infirmities, pining after the office desk and the city smoke, and finding nothing but satiety in the lonely hillside—Mr Macalister, with the furrows graven deep as stone on his brow, his lack-lustre eyes glancing wearily around. During the walk uphill Margot had been his companion, cheering him by her merry prattle, but, now that the destination was reached, she hung back, as though anxious to hide herself from view. Marvellous and unprecedented humility, for Margot Vane deliberately to choose a place in the rear!

It was impossible, however, for the only young woman of the party to remain in the background during the hour which followed, and, willy-nilly, Margot found herself forced into a foremost position; almost, it might be said, into the position of hostess to George Elgood’s host. While Mrs Macalister sat on a bank and fanned herself with her pocket-handkerchief, while the Chieftain built up the fires after a patent fashion of his own, Margot unpacked the hampers and laid out the contents on a tablecloth, carefully fastening down the corners with stones from the brook.

There was a goodly supply of eatables, for, as usual, Mrs McNab had proved better than her word. White bread and brown, scones and “cookies” galore, and a flat, round cake of most appetising appearance. There were also little pots of home-made preserves; a large bottle of cream, and a wonderfully exact and thoughtful supply of those smaller necessities which are so often forgotten on such occasions.

There was a frying-pan also, to cook the trout which had been duly caught to order, and were lying in readiness in a shady corner—two big shining fellows, such as would have delighted any fisherman’s eyes to behold. The second fire was built for their special benefit, and, as usual, each separate member of the party had his own suggestion to make as to its construction.

“Pile all the wood in a heap, and set fire to it! It’s as easy as tumbling off a wall!” cried the Chieftain, suiting the action to the word, and puffing cheerfully at clouds of smoke.

“You’ve built it far too tightly. Pull the branches apart, and lay ’em criss-cross—”

“The best way is to get one or two big stones and use them as a grate. Then you can get a draught underneath—”

“Quite so! and just as the water begins to boil, the whole thing collapses, and the kettle is upset!”

“Why can ye not bring up a methylated spirit lamp, and use its own stand as ye would at home?”

This last in Mr Macalister’s weary accents, and a loud groan of disapproval from the younger members of the party testified to the unpopularity of the idea.

“Oh, Mr Macalister, no! How horribly prosaic! It’s just because we do use it at home that we couldn’t think of it in a fairy dell. It’s a thousand times more romantic to use faggots.”

“Well, well! It’s a matter of taste. I should say a spirit lamp was as romantic as smoked water; but don’t mind me, don’t mind me! I have no call to interfere—”

“Mr Macalister was always a very handy man about the house. If anything went wrong with the kitchen range, I would say to the girl, ‘Wait till your master comes home!’ As long as he had his health we never sent for a workman. There’s very few could lay a fire better than he, if he took the trouble—”

“Tuts, tuts!” Mr Macalister frowned darkly at the faithful wife who so loyally chanted his praises, then, turning on his heel, paced solemnly down the dell. The Chieftain seized a sheet of the Glasgow Herald and vigorously fanned the dying flame; Margot coughed, choked, and spluttered before the clouds of smoke, and retreated in dismay to the more distant fire which George Elgood was sheltering with an open umbrella. Behind the impromptu tent he knelt, poking gingerly at the smouldering wood, but at Margot’s approach he sat back on his feet, lifting to hers a laughing, boyish face.

“No go! The wretched thing won’t light! How is Geoff getting on?”

“Your brother?” It was the first time that Margot had heard the Chieftain called by his Christian name, and it struck her as wonderfully appropriate for so bright and happy a personality. “He isn’t getting on at all! His measures are more drastic than yours, and he is at present occupied in fanning smoke into every one’s face, and knocking down sticks wholesale in the process. My hopes of tea are dwindling into the far distance—”

“What about grilled trout?” queried the Editor, pointing with a grimy finger at his own travesty of a fire. “At this rate, it seems as if we should have to come down to buns and milk; in which case I should never again be able to hold up my head before Mrs McNab. She told me that it was madness to think of cooking fish in the open.”

“But it isn’t, and it shan’t be, and we’ll make up our minds that we will!” cried Margot gaily. “Let us build up a little grate of stones, on which the pan can rest, and lay more faggots round the outside, to get warm and crisp before they are needed. We must keep the flame as clear as possible, so you can go on feeding it gently, while I attend to the fish. Big stones! We must pick them carefully from the side of the stream. The little ones are no use. I’ll go!”

“No, no! I’ll go!” He sprang to his feet as he spoke, and the umbrella, loosed from its moorings, pitched promptly forward, and alighted in the middle of the fire. There was only the tiniest of flickering flames, but, after the contrary nature of things, though it had scorned to undertake the grilling of trout, it seemed eager to seize upon twilled black silk, and to scorch it into a hole. Margot squealed; George Elgood pounced and stamped and dragged, until the ground was scattered over with smoking faggots, and the last pretence of fire had disappeared.

Just at this moment of thwarted ambition a whoop and crow of triumph sounded across the green, and behold the Chieftain capering round a dancing flame, and Mrs Macalister approaching with a brimming kettle.

“Quick! Quick!” cried Margot, flying brook-wards. “We’ll have it laid again in a moment. The ground is warm, and so are the sticks, so it will light more quickly this time. I’ll lay it afresh on two or three stones while you bring the rest. Big ones! Big ones!”

“But your frock, your pretty frock!” The Editor cast a commiserating glance at the dainty lawn flounces, already splattered with wet; but Margot only laughed, and ran eagerly back to her task.

The tea would be ready first, but that was only right and proper. The company would have time to be seated, and to help themselves to cream and sugar to their liking, and while they were even yet enjoying the first fragrant sips, the smoking trout would emerge from the pan, and triumphantly take its place on the festal tablecloth.

Gingerly picking up the smoking faggots, Margot piled them up in careful criss-cross fashion, sheltering them the while with the stones which the Editor carried back from the brook. Dress and hands alike suffered in the process, but she minded nothing for that. It was recompense enough to hear the crisp crackling of wood, to see the dancing gold of the flame. Almost as soon as the artificial grate was complete, the heat was strong enough to put on the frying-pan, and soon the fish was spluttering and sending forth a pleasant fragrance, at which the picnickers sniffed with anticipatory enjoyment.

A curious company they looked, seated on the ground around the well-spread table; very different from the usual party on like occasions, when a solitary adult is admitted on sufferance to play chaperon to a number of light-hearted youngsters. To-day youth was the exception rather than the rule, and a stolid reserve took the place of hilarious enjoyment. Yet even here the softening effects of tea and trout, and cakes and scones gradually made themselves felt. The clergyman waxed anecdotal, his grim face twitching with unexpected humour, as he related various sayings and doings of his brethren; the son insisted upon refilling the kettle, and superintending its second boiling. Mr Macalister assisted himself to two helpings of trout, and his wife’s disapproving gaze softened into complacence at the sight of the zest which replaced his usual languid distaste.

By the time that third cups of tea had been served round, the subject of music had been introduced, and the company had been made aware of the fact that a one-time singer of note was among their number. From this point it seemed only one step until Mr and Mrs Macalister were safely launched upon the strains of “Hunting Tower.”

There sat he at the one end of the low-spread cloth, eyes shut, brows elevated until they almost touched the locks of sandy hair which discreetly veiled his bald crown, his right hand sawing the air in time to the melody. There sat the guid-wife, beaming goodwill on all around, her bonnet-strings untied, her kindly face flushed to a peony red as the combined result of excitement and indigestion. There was not left much to boast of in the timbre of either voice; indeed, regarded as a musical effort, the duet must have been classed as a failure, had it not been for the hearty sincerity with which the words were voiced.

“Be my guidman yoursel, Jamie,
Marry me yoursel, laddie,
And tak’ me ower to Germanie,
Wi’ you at hame to dwell, laddie!

“I dinna ken how that wad do, Jeanie,
I dinna ken how that can be, lassie,
For I’ve a wife and bairnies three,
And I’m no sure how ye’d agree, lassie!

“Dry that tearful eye, Jeanie;
Grieve nae mair for me, lassie,
I’ve neether wife nor bairnies three,
And I’ll wed nane but thee, lassie!

“Blair in Athol’s mine, lassie,
Fair Dunkeld is mine, lassie,
Saint Johnstoun’s Bower, and Hunting Tower,
And a’ that’s mine is thine, lassie!”

A burst of applause greeted the concluding words, under cover of which Margot’s eyes and those of George Elgood met with instinctive sympathy.

“Aren’t they dears? Don’t you love to hear them?”

“Indeed I do! There’s so much poetry underlying the prose. To me they are far more interesting than a pair of young callow lovers, whose affection has known no trial.”

“Oh!” gasped Margot, and grimaced over her plate. She could not go so far as that, and had not bargained for such a degree of enthusiasm. As she stood side by side with the portly songstress a few minutes later, washing and drying dishes preparatory to packing them away in the hampers, she found herself still pondering over the Editor’s reply, and wondering if really—literally!—he could be more interested in this plain elderly woman than in a young attractive girl, like—like—

And then Miss Margot blushed, and tucked away a fold of the lawn skirt on which the mark of smoky fingers was painfully apparent!

When the hampers were packed ready for the return to the inn, an awkward silence fell upon the little company, while each one looked at the other, mutely interrogating as to what should happen next. It seemed ill-mannered to depart directly after being fed, yet no one knew what to do, or who should take the lead, seeing that the host himself appeared serenely unconscious of his duties. Once again it was the Chieftain who came to the rescue with a brilliant suggestion.

“Now we must clear the courts for Olympian sports, suitable for the occasion! To set the ball a-rolling, I’ll give you my celebrated impersonation of the reel, as performed by the prize dancer at the Athol Sports. Miss Vane! A word in your ear. Will you retire with me to the green-room behind those trees?”

Margot followed dimpling with amusement, and for the next ten minutes outbursts of laughter floated to the ears of the company, and kept them happily expectant of what was to come. Once or twice Margot darted across the green to open a hamper, and pilfer some mysterious article, which she made haste to cover beneath a cloth, and on her return would follow fresh explosions of mirth, the deep “Ha, ha!” of the Chieftain mingling with her own silvery trills of laughter.

Presently out he marched—“The Elgood of Elgood,” stepping daintily across the carpet of grass, his stockinged feet criss-crossed with bindings of tape, Mrs Macalister’s plaid shawl flounced round his substantial waist, and hanging therefrom to the depth of the knee. A roller towel was swathed across his body, and swung gallantly over his shoulder; sideways on his head was perched a cap of brown paper, secured across the chin with a shoelace, while held aloft in his hands was an empty milk-bottle, from the mouth of which issued the wailing notes of a bagpipe.

“Pity me, what’s this?” cried Mr Macalister, in amaze.

“Did ever any one see the like?” echoed his astonished wife.

The clergyman gazed over the top of his spectacles with eyes bulging with astonishment. Ron clapped his hands, and sent up a great shout of delight, while George Elgood sat on the grass clasping his knees with his hands, and shaking with laughter.

“Good old Geoff! Go it, Geoff! Keep it up. Dance, man, dance! Leave the pipes to us—we’ll pipe for you. Give your mind to your steps!”

Even as he spoke he and Ron seized bottles on their own account, and turned themselves into imaginary pipers, rivalling each other in turns and twists and long-drawn-out notes, till presently the infection spread, and every single member of the family was swelling the orchestra, Mr Macalister beating time with vigorous sawings of the arm and shakings of the head. So they piped, this motley assembly of old and young, while in the centre of the green the Chieftain twirled and leapt, and twirled again, and stamped his feet, and gave vent to loud staccato whoops—as deliciously comic a spectacle as one would meet in the course of a very long day.

Then at last, with purple face and gasping breath, he collapsed on the grass, and rolling over on his side lay panting, the while the onlookers exhausted themselves in applause.

“If they could see him now! If they could see him now!” cried George Elgood rapturously to himself; and Margot caught the words, and questioned curiously—

“Who? Whom do you mean?”

“The people at home. In town! What would they think?”

“Does he behave so differently in town?”

He cast at her a glance more eloquent than words. “Different!” he echoed beneath his breath. “Different!” But though she waited eagerly for a further explanation, it did not come. The Chieftain was already sitting up, mopping his damp face, and gesticulating energetically towards the other members of the party.

“Now then! Go ahead. I’ve led the way. Mr Macalister, your turn, sir! Who’s afraid?”

Mr Macalister shook his head. He was not afraid of any man, but his days were past for playing the fool! Not to say there had not been a time when he could dance a reel with the best! There was young Mr Menzies now—

Young Mr Menzies, the clergyman’s apathetic son, blushed crimson at the suggestion, and shook his head until it seemed in danger of falling off altogether. George Elgood stoutly denied his ability to “play tricks,” and tiresome, aggravating Ron flatly refused to improvise a poem on the day’s doings, throwing away a valuable opportunity with a recklessness which made his sister long to shake him.

Nobody would do anything! The Chieftain sat on the grass, divesting himself of his make-up, the while he roundly denounced his companions as the laziest, slackest, most unsportsmanlike crew whom it had ever been his misfortune to meet.

“But if you won’t play singly, you must play in bulk, for play you shall! We are out for a picnic, and must behave as sich. Up with you now, every man-jack of you!” he cried, suiting the action to the word, and springing to his own feet with the surprising ease and elasticity which characterised all his gestures. “We’ll start hide-and-seek along the Glen. We’ll hide, and,”—he glanced round, with an air of innocent inquiry—almost too innocent, it appeared in the eyes of one watcher at least!—and pointed a fat forefinger at his brother and Margot as they sat side by side—“you two will seek! Miss Vane and George... Give us ten minutes to hide ourselves discreetly, and then start out on your search. Between the two fireplaces shall be ‘Den!’ Are you ready?”

Apparently they were all ready. Mrs Macalister creaked and gasped, and finally rose to her feet; the men travelled after her in a long, straggling row. Margot and the Editor were left to themselves.

Chapter Eighteen.

Trout Fishing.

There was a short, somewhat embarrassed silence while Margot kept her eyes fixed on the scene of the late meal, the two smouldering fires, the piled-up hampers and baskets, and the Editor drummed with his fingers, and chewed his moustache.

“Er—” he began haltingly at last. “How do you think it has gone?”

“You mean the—”

“Picnic! Yes. My first entertainment. I feel responsible. Think they enjoyed it at all?”

“I’m sure of it. Immensely! They thawed wonderfully. Think of the duet! To hear Mr Macalister singing was a revelation. It has been a delightful change from the ordinary routine. And the trout! The trout was a huge success. How amiable of it to let itself be caught so conveniently!”

The Editor smiled, with the conscious pride of the experienced fisherman.

“There was not much ‘let’ about it. He led me a pretty dance before he gave up the struggle, but I was on my mettle, and bound to win. Do you know anything about fishing, Miss Vane?”

“I?” Margot laughed happily. “Just as much as I have gleaned from watching little boys fish for minnows in Regent’s Park! I don’t think I have ever particularly wanted to know more. It seems so dull to stand waiting for hours for what may never come, not daring to speak, in case you may scare it away! What do you think about all the time?”

He turned and looked at her at that, his lips twitching with amusement. Seated on the ground as they were, the two faces were very near together, and each regarded the other with the feeling of advancing a step further in the history of their acquaintance.

“He really is young!” decided Margot, with a sigh of relief. “It’s only the frown and the stoop and the eyeglasses which make him look as if he were old.”

George Elgood looked into the pink and white face, and his thoughts turned instinctively to a bush of briar roses which he had seen and admired earlier in the day. So fresh, and fair, and innocent! Were all young girls so fragrant and flower-like as this? Then he thought of the little prickles which had stung his hand as he had picked a bud from the same bush for his buttonhole, and smiled with latent mischief. After all, the remembrance did not lessen the likeness. Miss Margot looked as if she might—under provocation—display a prickle or two of her own!

“What do I think about?” he repeated slowly. “That is rather a difficult question to answer; but this good little river, I am thankful to say, does not leave one much time for thought. There’s a little channel just beyond the bridge that is a favourite place for sea trout. Would you like to see it?”

“Might I? Really? Oh, please!” cried Margot, all in a breath. Her very prettiest “please,” accompanied by a quick rise to her feet which emphasised the eagerness of her words.

George Elgood lost no time in following her example, and together they walked briskly away towards the head of the dell; that is to say, in the opposite direction to that taken by the other members of the party. George Elgood had picked up his fishing-tackle as he went—by an almost unconscious impulse, as it seemed—and unconsciously his conversation drifted to the all-absorbing topic.

“If we take a sharp cut across this hill—I’ll give you a hand down the steep bits!—we hit the river at the best spot. You have been grumbling at the wet weather, but you will see the good effects of rain, from a fisherman’s point of view. The river is full from bank to bank, rushing down to the sea. It is a fine sight, a river in flood! I don’t know anything in Nature which gives the same impression of power and joy. That’s where Norway has the pull. Her mountains can’t compare with the Swiss giants, but everywhere there is a glorious wealth of water. No calm sleeping lakes, but leaping cataracts of rivers filling whole valleys, as my little stream here fills its small banks; roaring and dashing, and sparkling in the sun. Norway is perfection, from a fisherman’s point of view; but there is plenty of sport to be found nearer home. I have had no cause to complain for the last fortnight. This way—to the right! It’s just a little rough going at first, but it cuts off a good mile. You are sure you don’t mind?”

Margot’s laugh rang out jubilantly. She scrambled up the steep mountain path with nimble feet, easily out-distancing her guide, until the hilltop was reached, and she stood silhouetted against the sky, while the wind blew out her white skirts, and loosened curling tendrils of hair.

Below could be traced the course of the river, winding in and out in deep curves, and growing ever broader and fuller with every mile it traversed. The sunlight which played on it, making it look like a silver ribbon, played also on the yellow gorse and purple heather; on the long grey stretch of country in the distance; on that softer blue plain joining the skyline, which was the sea itself. A breath of salt seemed to mingle with the aromatic odour of the heather, adding tenfold to its exhilaration.

As Margot stood holding on to her hat, and waiting for her companion’s approach, she felt such a glorious sense of youth and well-being, such an assurance of happiness to come, as is seldom given to mortals to enjoy. It was written in her face, her radiant, lovely young face, and the light in the eyes which she turned upon him made the shy scholar catch his breath.

“You did that well! Magnificently well!” he cried approvingly. “But you must take the descent carefully, please. There are one or two sudden dips which might be awkward if you were not prepared. I know them all. Shall I,—would you,—will you take my hand?”

“Thank you!” said Margot, and laid her hand in his with an acceptance as simple as if he had been her own brother. It was a very pretty little hand, in which its owner felt a justifiable pride, and it lay like a white snowflake in the strong brown palm stretched out to meet it.

For just a moment George Elgood kept his fingers straight and unclasped, while he gazed downward at it with kindling eyes, then they closed in a tight, protecting clasp, and together they began the descent.

For the most part it was easy enough, but the awkward places came so often and unexpectedly that it did not seem worth while to unloose that grasp until the bottom was safely reached. Margot had a dream-like sensation of having wandered along for hours, but in reality it was a bare ten minutes before she and her guide were standing on level ground by the side of the rushing river.

“Thank you! That was a great help,” she said quietly. George Elgood, with a sudden access of shyness, made no reply, but busied himself with preparation.

“I’ll just make another cast, to show you how one sets to work. I take a pretty big fly—the trout like that. These are the flies—all sizes, as you see. I am rather proud of them, for I make them myself in the winter months, when one can enjoy only the pleasures of anticipation. It’s a good occupation for a leisure hour.”

“You make them yourself!” Margot repeated incredulously, stretching out her hand to receive one of the hairy morsels on her palm, and bending over it in unaffected admiration. “But how clever of you! How can you have the patience? It must be dreadfully finicky work!”

“It is a trifle ‘finicky,’ no doubt!” He laughed over the repetition of the word. “But it’s a refreshing change to work with one’s hands sometimes, instead of one’s brain. Now shall I give you your first lesson in the art? Don’t imagine for a moment that fishing means standing still for the hour together, with nothing more exciting than the pulling-in of your fish the moment he bites. That’s the idea of the outsider who does not know what adventure he is losing, what hope and suspense, what glorious triumph! Like most things, it’s the struggle that’s the glory of the thing, not the prize. Shall I soak this cast for you, and give you your first lesson?”

“Oh, please! I’d love it! It would be too kind of you!” cried Margot eagerly. She had not the faintest idea what “soaking a cast” might mean, and listened in bewilderment to a score of unfamiliar expressions; but it is safe to affirm that she would have assented with equal fervour to almost any proposition which her companion made.

There and then followed the first lesson on the seemingly easy, but in reality difficult, task of “casting,” the Editor illustrating his lesson by easy, graceful throws, which Margot tried in vain to imitate. She grew impatient, stamping her feet, and frowning fiercely with her dark eyebrows, while he looked on with the amused indulgence which one accords to a child.

“Are you always in such a hurry to accomplish a thing at once?”

“Yes, always! It’s only when you don’t care that you can afford to wait.”

“It sometimes saves time in the end to make haste slowly!”

“Oh, don’t confound me with proverbs!” cried Margot, turning a flushed, petulant face at him over her shoulder. “I know I am impetuous and imprudent, but—the horrid thing will twist up! Don’t you think I might have a demonstration this time? Let me watch, and pick up hints. I’m sure I should learn more quickly that way, and it would be less boring for you. Please!”

At that he took the rod, nothing loth, and Margot seated herself on the ground, a trifle short of breath after her exertions, and not at all sorry to have the chance of looking on while some one else did the work. She was intently conscious of her companion’s presence, but he seemed to forget all about her, as wading slightly forward into the stream he cast his fly in slow, unerring circuit. How big he looked, how strong and masterful; how graceful were the lines of his tall lean figure! From where she sat Margot could see the dark profile beneath the deerstalker cap, the long straight nose, the firmly-closed lips, the steady eyes. It was the face of a man whom above all things one could trust. “A poor dumb body,” Mrs Macalister had dubbed him, scornfully; but Margot had discovered that he was by no means dumb, and that once the first barriers were broken, he could talk with the best, and bring into his conversation the added eloquence of expression. She recalled the lighting of his absorbed eyes as he had looked down at her own white hand, and flushed at the remembrance.

Margot had often pitied the wives and sisters of enthusiastic fishermen who had perforce to sit mum-chance in the background, but to-day she was conscious of no dissatisfaction with her own position. She possessed her full share of the girl’s gift of building castles, and it would not be safe to say how high the airy structure had risen before suddenly the rod bent, and the Editor’s intent face lit up with elation. The fish was hooked; it now remained to “play” with him, in professional parlance, till he could be landed with credit to himself and his captor.

For the next half-hour Margot was keenly, vividly interested in studying the tactics of the game. The reel screamed out, as the captive made a gallant dash for liberty; the Editor splashed after him, running hastily by the side of the river, now reeling in his line, now allowing it full play; and at the distance of a few yards she ran with him, now holding her breath with suspense, now clasping her hands in triumph, until at last, his struggles over, the captive floated heavily upon the stream.

It was the end for which she had longed throughout thirty of the most exciting moments that she had ever known; but now that victory was secured, woman—like she began to feel remorse.

“Oh, is it dead? Have you killed it? But it’s horrid, you know—quite horrible! A big strong man like you, and that poor little fish—”

“Not little at all! It’s a good six-pounder,” protested the fisherman, quick to defend his sport against depreciation. “No—he’s not dead yet, but he soon will be. I will just—”

“Wait! Wait! Let me get out of the way.” Margot flew with her fingers in her ears, then pulled them out to cry—“Is it done? Is it over? Can I come back?”

“Yes; it is all right. I’ve put him in my bag. You will appreciate him better in his table guise. I’ll take him back as a peace-offering to Mrs McNab, for her own evening meal. We have already had our share at the pic—”

Suddenly his hands fell to his sides, he straightened himself, and turned his eyes upon her, filled with puzzle and dismay.

“The pic—”

”—Nic!” concluded Margot faintly. Rosy red were her cheeks; a weight as of lead pressed on her eyelids, dragging them down, down, beneath his gaze. “I—I—forgot! We were to have gone to find them! Do you suppose they are—hiding still?”

He laughed at that, though in somewhat discomfited fashion.

“Rather not! Given us up long ago. It must be getting on for an hour. I can’t think how I came to forget—”

Margot glanced at him shyly beneath her curling lashes.

“It was the fish! A fisherman can’t be expected to remember anything when he is landing a trout!” she suggested soothingly. Nevertheless she remembered with a thrill of joy that his forgetfulness had dated back to a time when there had been no fish in prospect. “Do you suppose they have gone home?”

“We will go and see. From that mound over there we can overlook the path to the inn. Perhaps we had better keep a little in the background! It would be as well that they should not see us, if they happened to look up—”

If it were possible to feel a degree hotter, Margot felt it at that moment, as she followed George Elgood up the little hillock to the right, and, pausing just short of the top, peered stealthily around. A simultaneous exclamation broke from both lips; simultaneously they drew back, and crouched on their knees to peer over the heather.

There they went!—straggling in a row in the direction of the inn, the party of revellers who had been so basely deserted.

First, the clergyman, with his hands clasped behind his back, his head bent in thought; a pensive reveller, this, already beginning to repent a heavy, indigestible meal; next, Mrs Macalister, holding her skirts in characteristic fashion well up in front and sweeping the ground behind; a pace or two in the rear, her spouse, showing depression and weariness in every line of his body. Yet farther along the two young men carrying the empty hampers; last of all, at quite a little distance from the rest, the figure of the Chieftain stepping out with a tread even more conspicuously jaunty than usual, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his head turned from side to side, as if curiously scanning the hillsides.

At one and the same moment Margot and the Editor ducked their heads, and scrambled backwards for a distance of two or three yards. There was a moment’s silence, then instinctively their eyes met. Margot pressed her lips tightly together, George Elgood frowned, but it was all in vain; no power on earth could prevent the mischievous dimples from dipping in her cheeks; no effort could hide the twinkle in his eyes—they buried their heads in their hands, and shook with laughter!

When at last composure was regained, George Elgood pulled his watch from his pocket, glanced at the time, and cried eagerly—

“There is still an hour before we need be back for dinner. As well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. Let us go back to the river, and try our luck once more!”

Chapter Twenty.

Criticism.

Out of sympathy and respect for Mr and Mrs Macalister, nothing more was said about the next picnic party for several days after their tragic departure from the Glen, but the intervening time was, to Margot at least, full of interest and excitement. One morning, for instance, as she strolled from the breakfast-room to the road, as was the easy custom of the hour, a hurried step followed in the same direction, and George Elgood, staring hard in an opposite direction, advanced an opinion that one lesson in fishing was mere waste of time, whereas two, or perhaps three, might possibly convey some real knowledge of the art. Er—did Miss Vane feel inclined to pay another visit to the river?

Miss Vane, poking the gravel with the points of her shoes, was—er—yes! quite inclined, if Mr Elgood was sure she would not interrupt his sport Mr Elgood, with equal eagerness and incoherence, assured Miss Vane that she would do nothing of the kind, and hurried back to the inn, murmuring vaguely concerning eleven o’clock.

In the quiet of the riverside, however, he regained his self-possession, and once more proved himself to be the most interesting of companions, the most patient of instructors. Margot thought fishing a delightful and absorbing pursuit, which was the more remarkable as she was rather stupid than otherwise in mastering the initial movements. Mr Elgood encouraged her, however, by saying that some of the cleverest “rods” of his acquaintance had been the slowest in picking up the knack. The great thing was to have plenty of practice! She ought to come up every morning for as much time as she could spare; meantime, as she had been standing so long, would she not like to sit down, and rest awhile before walking home?

Then they sat down side by side on the grassy bank, and talked together as a man and a maid love to talk in the summer of their youth, exchanging innocent confidences, comparing thoughts and opinions, marvelling that they are so much alike.

Margot faithfully observed her promise to make no references to her ambitions on her brother’s behalf, and, truth to tell, her silence involved little effort, for she was guiltily conscious of being so much engrossed in her own affairs that even Ron’s ambitions had faded into the background. As for the lad himself, he was happy enough, wandering about by himself studying “effects” to transcribe to paper, or scouring the countryside with the Chieftain, whom he frankly adored, despite the many exceedingly plain-spoken criticisms and exhortations received from his lips.

“Your sister has been telling me about that rhyming craze of yours,” the little man said suddenly one day. “Likewise about her own very pretty little scheme for the subjugation of my brother. Told you that she’d told me, eh? Expect she did! She is pleased to believe she is a designing little adventuress, whereas as a matter of fact she’s as clear as crystal, and any one with half an eye could see through her schemes. Well! I laid down the law that neither she nor you are to worry my brother about business matters during his holiday, for, to tell you the truth, he has had his full share of worry of late. But what about me? I’m a plain, common-sense, steady-going old fellow, who might perhaps be able to give you a word or two of advice! What’s all this nonsense about throwing aside a post that’s waiting for you, and which means an income for life, in order to live in an attic, and scribble verses for magazines? If you knew the world, young man, you would understand that you are blessedly well off, to have your way made smooth, and would not be in such a hurry to meet disappointments half way. They will come soon enough! At the best of it, you will have a hard row to hoe. Why make it worse?”

Ronald flushed in sensitive fashion, but there was no hint of offence in his manner, as he replied—

“It is hardly a question of an attic, sir. My father would not disinherit me because I preferred literature to business. I might have a pittance instead of a fortune, but I should not have to fear want. And why should I not live my own life? If I am bound to meet troubles, surely it is only right to provide what compensations I can, and my best compensation would be congenial work! I don’t want to be rich. Let some other fellow take the post, and get his happiness out of it; it would be slavery to me.”

“Humph! No boy likes the idea of putting his nose to the grindstone. They all kick a bit at the thought of an office desk, but nine out of ten enjoy the life when they get into the swing. It’s a great secret of happiness in this world, to be kept so busy that we have not time to think of ourselves. We need work for its own sake, even more than for what it brings; but our work must be worthy. There’s no real success away from that... About those verses now! It’s a pleasant occupation for you to sling them together—I haven’t a word to say against it as a recreation—but that’s a different thing from serious work. There’s only one thing which justifies a man in cutting himself adrift from the world, in opposition to the wishes of those who have his interests most at heart, and that is, a strong and solemn conviction of a special mission in life. Very well then! If you agree so far, let us proceed to consider the mission of a poet. There’s only one justification for his existence—only one thing that distinguishes him from the professional rhymester whom nobody wants, and who is the bane and terror of society, and that is—that he has something to say! Now take your own case—a lad without as much as a moustache on his face; the son of a rich father, who has lain soft all his life, and had the bumps rolled flat before him. What do you imagine that you are going to teach the world? Do you fondly believe that you have anything to say that has not been said before, and a thousand times better into the bargain?”

Ronald looked up and gazed dreamily ahead. He had taken off his cap, as his custom was in these moorland tramps, which were becoming of daily occurrence, and his hair was ruffled on his forehead, giving an air of even more than ordinary youth to his face. The hazel eyes were dark, and the curved lips trembled with emotion; he was searching his soul for the reply to a question on which more than life seemed to depend, and while he gazed at the purple mountains with unseeing eyes the Chieftain gazed at his illumined face, and felt that he had received his answer.

The words of Wordsworth’s immortal ode rushed into his brain, and he recognised that this ignorant lad possessed a knowledge which was hidden from the world. Heaven, with its clouds of glory, lay close around him, ignorant of worldly wisdom though he might be. God forbid that the one should ever be exchanged for the other!

The Chieftain was answered, but like Ron he remained silent. They walked on over the short, springy grass, breathed the clear, fresh breeze, and thought their own thoughts. It was not until nearly a mile had been traversed that Ron turned his head and said simply, as if answering a question put but a moment before—

“I sing, because I must! It is my life. I have not thought of other people, except in so far as their approval would justify me in my father’s eyes. You could no doubt judge better than I if what I have to say has value or not. Will you read some of my lines?”

A curious sound broke from the Chieftain’s lips, a sound something between a groan and a laugh. He frowned, pursed his lips, swung his short arms vigorously to and fro, shook his head with an air of determined opposition, then suddenly softened into a smile.

“It’s a strange world, my masters! A strange world! You never know your luck! In the middle of my holiday, and a Scotch moor into the bargain! I’ll try Timbuctoo another year! Nothing else for it. Where does my brain-rest come in, I want to know! You and your verses—be plagued to the pair of you! Got some about you now, I suppose? Hand them over, then,—the first that come to the surface—and let me get through with it as soon as possible!”

He plumped down on the grass as he spoke, took out a large bandana handkerchief and mopped his brow with an air of resignation, while Ronald fumbled awkwardly in his pocket.

“I have several pencil copies. I think you can make them out. This is the latest. A Madrigal—‘To my Lady.’”

“Love-song?”

“Yes.”

“Ever been in love?”

“No.”

“What a pity when charming—poets—sing of things they don’t understand! Well, well, hand it over! I’ll bear it as bravely as I may—”

Ron winced, and bit his lower lip. It was agony to sit by and watch the cool, supercilious expression on the critic’s face, the indifferent flick of the fingers with which the sheet was closed and returned.

“Anything more?”

“You don’t care for that one?”

“Pretty platitudes! Read them before a score of times—and somewhat more happily expressed. If I were a poet—which I’m not, thank goodness!—I could turn ’em out by the score. Ten shillings each, reduction upon taking a dozen. Suitable for amateur tenors, or the fashion-magazines. Alterations made if required... Anything else in the lucky bag?”

“There’s my note-book. They are all in there—the new ones, I mean, written since I came up here. You can read which you please.”

Ron took the precious leather book from his pocket, and handed it over with an effort as painful as that of submitting a live nerve to the dentist’s tool. As he sat on the ground beside his critic he dug his heels into the grass, and the knuckles of his clenched hands showed white through the tan. The beginning had not been propitious, and he knew well that no consideration for his feelings would seal the lips of this most honest of critics. For a few moments he had not courage to look at his companion’s face, but even without that eloquent guide it was easy to follow his impressions.

A grunt, a groan, a long incredulous whistle, a sharp intake of breath—these were but too readily translated as adverse criticisms, but between these explosions came intervals of silence less easy to explain. Ron deliberately rolled over on his side, turning his back on his companion, thereby making it impossible to see his face. Those who have never trusted their inmost thoughts to paper can hardly imagine the acute suffering of the moment when they are submitted to the cold criticism of an outsider. Life and death themselves seemed to hang in the balance for the young poet during the half-hour when he lay on the heather listening to each sound and movement of his critic. At the end of half an hour the interruption came. A yawn, a groan, the pressure of a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Now then, wake up, over there! Time to move on!”

Awake! As if it were possible that he could be asleep! Never in his life had he been more acutely, painfully conscious of his surroundings. Ron rose to his feet, casting the while a tense glance at his companion’s face. What verdict would he see written on eye and mouth as the result of that half-hour’s study? He met a smile of bland good-humour; the cheery, carelessly complacent smile of the breakfast-table, the smoke-room, the after-dinner game; with not one trace of emotion, of kindled feeling, or even ordinary appreciation! The black note-book was tossed into his hands, as carelessly as if it had been a ball; even a commonplace word of comment was denied.

It was a bitter moment, but, to the lad’s credit be it said, he met it bravely. A gulp to a tiresome lump in the throat, a slight quivering of the sensitive lips, and he was master of himself again, hastily stuffing the precious note-book out of sight, and striving to display the right amount of interest in his companion’s conversation. It was not until the inn was within sight that Mr Elgood made the slightest allusion to the verses which he had read.

“Ah—about those rhymes!” he began casually. “Don’t take yourself too seriously, you know. It’s a strange thing that young people constitute themselves the pessimists of the world, while the old ones, who know what real trouble is, are left to do the optimism by themselves. If you are bound to sing, sing cheerfully! Try to forget that ‘sad’ rhymes with ‘glad,’ and don’t feel it necessary to end in the minor key. That rhyming business has a lot to answer for. I like you best when you are content to be your natural, cheerful self!”

“You think, then—you do think—some of them a little good?”

Ron’s wistful voice would have melted a heart of stone. The Chieftain laid a hand on his arm with a very kindly pressure.

“There are some of ’em,” he said cheerfully, “which are a lot better than others. I’m not partial to amateur verses myself, but I don’t mind telling you for your comfort that I’ve seen worse, before now—considerably worse!”

Poor Ron! It was bitter comfort. In the blessed privacy of his own room he sat himself down to read over the pages of the little black book with painful criticism, asking himself miserably if it were really true that they were feeble amateur efforts, tinged with pretence and unreality. Here and there a flush and a wince proved that the accusation had gone home, when a vigorous pencil mark on the side of the page marked the necessity for correction, but on the whole he could honestly refute the charge; could declare, with the bold yet humble conviction of the true craftsman, that it was good work; work well done; work worth doing!

The dreamy brown eyes sent out a flash of determination.

“I can!” said Ron to himself. “And I will!”

Chapter Twenty One.

A Mountain Mist.

Three days later a wagonette was chartered from Rew, to drive the diminished party to the scene of the haunted castle. Margot felt rather shy in the position of the only lady, but a mild proposition that she should stay at home had been so vigorously vetoed that she had nothing more to say.

“If one clergyman, plus one brother, plus one bald-headed veteran, aren’t sufficient chaperons for one small girl, things are coming to a pretty pass indeed!” protested the Chieftain vigorously. “If you stay at home, we all stay, so that’s settled, and the disappointment and upset will be on your head. Why all this fuss, I should like to know? One might think you were shy.”

Margot pouted, and wriggled her shoulders inside her white blouse.

“I am shy!”

“You are, are you? Hadn’t noticed it before. Of whom, if one may ask?”

She turned at that, and walked back to the inn, nose in air, but thereafter there were no more demurs.

It was indeed a very decorous little party which sat in two rows of three, facing each other in the wagonette during the eight-mile drive. The clergyman and the Chieftain, with Margot between them; and opposite, the three dreamers: the Editor, Ron, and young Mr Menzies,—each apparently too much immersed in his own thoughts to care for conversation. Margot was quite thankful when the drive came to an end, outside castle walls, grim and grey, but imposing as ever, though they were in reality but a shell, surrounding a plot of innocent green grass. There were isolated towers still standing, however, approached by winding stone stairways, and short lengths of walks along the ramparts, and quaint little barred windows through which one could view the surrounding country. When Margot thrust her pretty laughing face through one of these latter to greet her friends below, every photographer among them insisted upon snap-shotting her then and there, and for a good half-hour she was kept busy, posing in various attitudes, to give the desired touch of life to the pictures.

Photography over, the next duties were to partake of lunch and to wander round the small, and it must be confessed somewhat uninteresting little village; then,—since the return home counted as one of the chief attractions in the programme—the little party broke up into two, the clergyman and his son preferring the longer route, round by the roads, the other four to take the short—cut across the moors.

A five-mile walk across the moors! Given health, settled skies, and congenial society, it would be difficult to name a more exhilarating occupation for a summer afternoon; but, truth to tell, the weather had taken a decided turn for the worse since midday, and it needed some optimism to set forth on a long exposed walk.

The subject had been discussed at lunch with special reference to Margot, as the only lady of the party; but, as she aptly observed, she was bound to get back somehow, and, as a choice of evils, preferred to walk through rain, rather than sit still to be soaked through and through on the seat of the wagonette. It was therefore decided to make an early start, and allow no loitering by the way; but when the village had been left about a mile behind an unexpected delay occurred. The Chieftain thrust his hands into his pockets, and stopped short in the middle of the road, with an expression of dismay.

“Eh, what! Here’s a fine kettle of fish! Where’s my bunch of keys? They were here as safe as houses, a few minutes back. I was jingling tunes on them as we passed the school. You heard me jingling ’em! Dropped them on the road, I suppose, and walked on like a blind bat. Serves me right to have to turn back to find ’em. Can’t lose my keys, you know. Got to find them somehow, or there’ll be the mischief to pay. You’ll have to go on, George, and take Miss Vane with you. There’s no time for conundrums, if you want to get home dry.” He looked towards Ron with questioning eyebrows. “Feel inclined to keep me company? I don’t fancy that walk by my lonesome.”

“Of course I do. I should not think of leaving you behind by yourself, sir,” returned Ron eagerly. “We can’t have far to go, and we can soon catch up the others, if we make a sprint for it. Go on, Margot. We’ll be after you in no time.”

In the circumstances there was nothing else to be done, nor indeed, after a long morning spent in wandering about as a party, was Margot inclined to quarrel with the fate which provided an interesting tÊte-À-tÊte for the walk home. She contented herself with expressing profuse sympathy for the Chieftain’s loss, and with prophesying cheerfully that the keys were certain to be found, then promptly dismissed the subject from her mind, and gave herself up to the enjoyment of the moment.

“I really think we are wise not to wait about,” George Elgood said, in accents of self-vindication, as they moved on together. “The glass is high, but I don’t like the look of things, all the same, and for your sake shall be glad when we are nearer home. Are you pretty warmly dressed, if the rain should come on?”

“Don’t I look it? I couldn’t possibly have anything more suitable than this tweed coat and skirt. It doesn’t matter how wet it gets. It won’t spoil.”

“I was thinking about your own comfort, not of the clothes. You never carry an umbrella with you, I notice!”

“I can’t be bothered! Showers are such an everyday occurrence up here, that one would be doing nothing else. I rather like the feel of the rain on my face, and besides,”—she laughed mischievously, “it’s good for the complexion!”

“Is that so?” he asked gravely, his dark eyes dwelling on the soft, rounded cheeks, which grew a shade more pink beneath his gaze. Suddenly his lips twitched, with the one-sided, humorous smile which brought the youth into his face. “I don’t think the need in that direction is so pressing that it could not be postponed with advantage, for to-day at least. Do you mind walking fairly quickly? I shall feel more comfortable when we are nearer home.”

Margot was serenely indifferent whether it rained or not, but none the less she appreciated the Editor’s care for her welfare, which showed itself in a dozen little graceful acts during the first part of their walk. For one unaccustomed to women’s society he was marvellously observant, and Margot felt a sweeter satisfaction in being so protected than in all her former independence. They climbed the hillside which led to the moor and set out radiantly to traverse the grey expanse; grey and cheerless to-day in very deed, with a thick, blanket-like dampness in the atmosphere of which dwellers in southern climes are happily ignorant.

George Elgood turned up the collar of his coat, and Margot thrust her hands into her pockets, shivering slightly the while, but neither made any complaint in words. As usual, it was left to Margot to do most of the talking; but though her companion’s responses were short, they were yet so sympathetic and appreciative, that there was never any difficulty in finding a fresh subject. Like most couples with whom friendship is fast making way for a warmer emotion, personal topics were the most appreciated, and what was happening in the world—the discoveries of science, the works of the great writers—palled in interest before sentences beginning with, “I think,” and, “Do you think?”

“I wish—”

“Have you ever wished—?”

They looked at each other as they spoke, with bright, questioning glances, which seemed ever to hail some precious new discovery of mind, drawing them closer and closer together. The hour of enchantment had come, when they moved in a world of their own, unconscious of external accidents. The moisture hung in dewdrops on the Editor’s cap, Margot’s hair curled damply on her forehead; but they felt neither cold nor discomfort. It was unusually dark for the time of day, and had grown mysteriously darker during the last half-hour; but visitors to the Highlands become philosophically resigned to sudden and unpleasant atmospheric changes, and fall into the way of ignoring them as far as possible.

It was only when they reached a point in the moor from whence the ground sloped sharply downward towards the Glen that they awoke to the consciousness of danger, for instead of a rolling stretch of green surrounded by purple hills, they seemed to be looking down into a cauldron of floating mist and steam, blocking out the view, confusing the eyes, and slowly but surely concealing the familiar landmarks.

Margot and the Editor stopped short with simultaneous exclamations of dismay, then wheeled quickly round, to see what lay behind. Here indeed the fog was much less dense, but the distance was already obliterated, while long, smoke-like tendrils of mist were closing in on every hand. The signs which they had noted had portended something worse than rain; something which the dwellers in moorland regions learn to fear and dread above all other phenomena,—a mountain mist!

George Elgood’s face was eloquent with self-reproach.

“This is my fault! Where were my eyes, that I did not see what was happening? The darkness should have warned me long ago. I am horribly ashamed of myself, Miss Vane!”

“You needn’t be. It’s as much my fault as yours. I did notice the damp on my face, but I thought it was rain. What are we to do?”

It was a simple question, but terribly difficult to answer. With every moment those rolling masses of mist settled down more densely over the hillsides. To walk forward was to walk blindfold over a treacherous country; to return seemed hardly more propitious, though as a choice of evils it was the one to be preferred.

“We must go back. We can’t have come more than two or three miles. We must get back, and drive round by the road. Probably we shall meet Geoffrey and your brother en route!”

Even as he spoke the Editor turned and led the way towards the little village which had been left behind less than an hour before. There was no time to waste, for the darkness was increasing, and the clammy dankness of the air struck to the very marrow.

“I shall never forgive myself if you suffer through this. It was my business to look after you. There’s only this slight excuse—that we were mounting towards the highest part of the moor, which was naturally the clearest. The mist seems to have gathered from all around.”

Margaret looked and shivered, but hastened to appease his anxiety.

“I think we did notice, but as we were expecting rain, a little mistiness was natural. We could not tell that it was going to spread like this. Never mind! It will be quite an adventure to brag about when we are back in town. ‘Lost on the Scotch moors! Tourists disappear in a mist!’ It would make a thrilling headline, wouldn’t it?”

She laughed as she spoke, but the laugh had rather a forced tone. Suddenly she became conscious that she was tired and chilled, that her coat was soaked, and her boots heavy with damp. Though only a few paces away, the figure of her companion was wreathed with tendrils of mist; they were floating round her also; blinding her eyes, catching her breath, sending fresh shivers down her back. A pang of fear shot through her at the thought of what might lie ahead.

Like two grey ghosts they struggled onward through the gloom.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Lost on the Moor.

George Elgood’s haste to reach the end of the moor gave wings to his feet, so that Margot had much ado to keep pace. Contrary to expectation, the fog did not lessen as they advanced, but closed in upon them thicker and thicker, so that the ground beneath their feet became invisible, and progress was broken by sundry trips and stumbles over projecting mounds of heather. The air seemed to reek with moisture, and a deadly feeling of oppression, almost of suffocation, affected the lungs, as the curling wreath of mist closed overhead.

Half an hour earlier Margot had felt that any sort of adventure (if experienced in George Elgood’s company) must of necessity be enjoyable, but during that swift silent retreat she was conscious of a dawning of something perilously like fear. Her breath came in quickened pants, she kept her eyes fixed in a straining eagerness on the tall figure looming darkly ahead. If she once lost sight of him, what would become of her? It made her shudder to think of being left alone upon that shrouded moor!

Every now and then as he walked, the Editor gave voice to a loud “coo-ee,” in hope that the echoes might reach the ears of his brother and Ronald, who should by now be approaching in the same direction; but no reply floated back to his anxious ears.

“Perhaps they have gone round by the road,” he suggested tentatively. “If they were some time in following, they may have seen the fog, and come to the conclusion that discretion was the better part of valour.”

“Ron wouldn’t go another way if he thought I was in danger! He promised father to take care of me. I know he will come.”

“Then we are bound to meet; unless—” George Elgood stopped short hurriedly. It was not for him to open his companion’s eyes to the fact that the direction which they were taking had become a matter of speculation, as one after another the familiar landmarks faded from view.

The two brothers might pass by within a few yards, or their paths might diverge by miles, but in either case they would be equally invisible. The only hope was to go on sending out the familiar cry, which would at once prove their identity. “Not that we should be any better off with them than without!” he told himself dolefully.

Margot did not ask for a completion of the unfinished sentence, perhaps because she guessed only too truly its import. A few steps farther on her foot came in contact with a stone hidden beneath a clump of furze; she stumbled, tried in vain to recover herself, and fell forward on her knees. The shock and the severe pricking which ensued forced a cry of dismay, and the Editor turned back hurriedly, and uttered a startled inquiry.

“Miss Vane, where are you?”

“I’m here!” replied a doleful voice, and a dark form stirred at his feet. “I—fell! On a horrid bush! My hands are full of prickles.”

“I’ll light a match while you get them out. It’s my fault. I might have guessed what would happen. I’d like to kick myself for being so thoughtless.”

“Please don’t! We don’t want any more tribulations. I—I’m quite all right!” cried Margot, with tremulous bravery. The flicker of a match showed a pale face, and two little hands grimed with dust and earth. She brushed them hastily together, and peered up into his face. “It’s pretty thick, isn’t it?”

“Abominably thick! I have heard of the sudden way in which these mountain mists come on, but I’ve never been in one before. I could kick myself once more for not having noticed it sooner. I suppose I was too much absorbed in our conversation.”

The match died out, and there was a moment’s silence, in which Margot seemed to hear the beating of her own heart. Then in the darkness a hand lifted hers, and placed it against an arm which felt reassuringly solid.

“You must let me help you along. A moor is not the easiest place in the world to cross in the dark. You won’t mind my shouts? I want to let the other fellows know where we are, if they are within hearing.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I’ll shout, too! They must be near. It seems ridiculous that we can’t see each other.”

But still no answering cry came back, and Margot’s sense of comfort in the supporting arm gradually gave place to a revival of her first dread. She shivered, and swallowed a lump in her throat before daring a fateful question.

“Mr Elgood, do you know—have you the faintest idea where we are going?”

His arm tightened over her hand, but he made no attempt at prevarication.

“No, I haven’t! For the last five or ten minutes it has been purely guess-work.”

“We may be going in the wrong direction, or round and round in a circle!”

“We may—I am afraid it is more than probable. I have been thinking that it might be better to stay where we are. We can’t have strayed very far out of the course as yet, but—” Again he stopped, and this time Margot completed the sentence.

“I know! It’s not safe to wander about when we can’t see what is ahead. I’ve been thinking the same thing. We had better sit down and wait. They will come to look for us. I’m sure they will come, and there’s a cottage somewhere near, where we have been for milk. That’s another chance. If we keep calling the people, they may hear us.”

“Oh yes, yes! Some one will hear, or the mist will rise as suddenly as it fell. It will be only for a short time,” returned the Editor sturdily. “Now look here—the ground is soaking—you can’t possibly sit on it without something underneath. If you could spare your cape it would serve us both as a rug, and I’m going to wrap you up in my coat.”

He loosened his arm, as if to take off the said coat forthwith, but Margot’s fingers tightened their grasp in very determined fashion.

“You are not! I won’t wear it. I absolutely refuse to do any such thing. How can you suggest such a horridly selfish arrangement—I to wear your coat, while you sit shivering in shirt-sleeves? Never! I’d rather freeze!”

“Put it the other way. Am I, a man, to hug my coat, and let a girl sit on the soaking grass? How do you suppose I should feel? I’d rather freeze, too!”

Margot gave a quavering little laugh.

“It seems to me we have a pretty good chance of doing it—coat or no coat. If I am a girl, I’m a healthy one, and I must take my chance. Did you happen to put your newspaper in your pocket this morning? That would be better than nothing.”

“Of course I did! That will do capitally. What a blessing you thought of it! There! Sit down quickly, and I’ll pull a bit down under your feet. Can’t I wrap that cape more tightly round you? And the hood? Hadn’t you better have the hood up?”

“Yes, please! I had forgotten the hood. That will be cosy!”

Margot’s cold cheeks flamed with sudden colour as she felt the touch of careful fingers settling the hood round head and face, and fumbling for the hook under the chin. At that moment at least cold was not the predominant sensation! There was a short silence while the Editor seated himself by her side, and felt in his pockets.

“You won’t mind if I smoke?”

“I shall like it, especially if you have fusees. I love the smell of fusees! You don’t ask me to have a cigarette, I notice, and yet it is fashionable for girls to smoke nowadays. How did you know that I didn’t?”

“I did know! I can hardly tell why, but I am thankful for it, all the same. I am too old-fashioned to care for smoking women. A girl loses her charm when she apes a man’s habits.”

“Yes. I agree. I am sorry I am not a man, but as I’m a girl I prefer to be a real one, and have my clothes smelling sweet and violety, instead of like a fusty railway carriage. But men seem to find smoke soothing at times. I wish I had a feminine equivalent of it just now. It’s a little bit frightening to sit still and stare into this blank white wall. Couldn’t you tell me something interesting to pass the time?”

“It’s a little difficult to be ‘interesting’ to order. What particular kind of narrative would distract you best?”

“Oh—something about yourself. Something you have done, or felt, or planned for another day. I’m so interested in people!” returned Margot, wrapping the folds of her cloak more closely round her, and slipping her hands deep down into the inside pockets. “Have you had any thrilling experiences or adventures that you don’t mind speaking about? The more thrilling the better, please, for my feet are so cold!”

She shivered, in involuntary childish fashion, and George Elgood sighed profoundly.

“This is about the biggest adventure I’ve had. I was once snowed up for a night in a rest-house on one of the Swiss mountains, but we had every ordinary comfort, and knew exactly where we were, so that it didn’t amount to much, after all. I was going up with my guide, and met another party of two brothers and a sister coming down, and we all took shelter together, while one of the guides returned to the village, to let the people in the hotel know of our safety. When the door was open the prospect was sufficiently eerie, but we made a fire and brewed tea, and passed the time pleasantly enough. The worst part of it was that I had to give up the ascent next day, as there was too much snow to make it prudent to go on.”

“Oh! Yes! Was she pretty?”

She felt, rather than saw, his start of surprise.

“Who?”

“The sister. You said there was a girl in the other party.”

“I’m sure I don’t know! I didn’t notice.”

“Don’t you care how people look?”

“It doesn’t interest me, unless I am already attracted in other ways. At least—” he hesitated conscientiously. “I used not to be. I think I am growing more noticing. Geoff always said I needed to be awakened to the claims of beauty. I understand now that it may be a great additional charm.”

How did he understand? Who or what had increased his power of observation? Margot hoped that she knew; longed to be certain, yet dreaded the definite information. In a little flurry of nervousness she began to talk volubly on her own account, hoping thereby to ward off embarrassing explanations.

“I seem fated to come in for adventures. I went over to Norway one summer, and the engines broke down half-way across the North Sea, and at the same time all the electric lights went out. It was terribly rough, and we rolled for a couple of hours—the longest hours I have ever known! The partitions of the cabins did not quite reach to the roof, and you could hear the different conversations going on all round. In a dreary kind of way I realised that they were very funny, and that I should laugh over them another day. Quite near us were two jolly English schoolboys, who kept ordering meals all the next day, and shouting out details to a poor sister who was lying terribly ill in the next cabin ‘Monica, we are having bacon! Have a bit of bread soaked in fat?’ Then Monica would groan—a heartrending groan, and they would start afresh. ‘Buck up, Monica—try a muffin!’ At lunch-time they pressed roast beef and Yorkshire pudding upon her, and she groaned louder than ever. She was ill, poor girl. In Norway there was an alarm of fire in one of those terrible wooden hotels, and we all jumped on each other’s balconies to get to the outside staircases. It was soon extinguished, but it was a very bad scare. And now this is the third. Mr Elgood, do coo-ee again! Ron must be looking for me, unless he is lost himself.”

The Editor put his hands to his mouth and sent forth a succession of long-drawn-out calls, which seemed as though they must surely be heard for miles around, but in the silence which followed no note of reply could be heard. In the face of such continued disappointment, Margot had not the courage to go on making conversation, but relapsed into a dreary silence, which was broken only by the gentle puff-puff of the Editor’s pipe. In the darkness and silence neither took note of time, or realised how it sped along. Only by physical sensations could it be checked, but gradually these became disagreeably pressing.

Margot’s feet were like ice, her fingers so cold as to be almost powerless; but as the minutes passed slowly by the active discomfort was replaced by a feeling of drowsy indifference. She seemed to have been sitting for years staring into a blank white wall, and had no longer any desire to move from her position. It was easier to sit still, and wait upon Fate.

Beneath the veil of darkness her head drooped forward, and she swayed gently from side to side. For some time these movements were so slight as to pass unnoticed by her companion, but as the drowsiness increased the muscles seemed to lose control, the swayings became momentarily more pronounced, until she tilted violently over, to recover herself with a jerk and a groan. Then indeed George Elgood was startled into anxious attention.

“What is it? What is the matter? Are you in pain?”

The inarticulate murmur which did duty for reply seemed only to whet anxiety still further.

“Miss Vane, are you ill? For pity’s sake tell me what is wrong!”

Another murmur sounded faintly in his ear, followed by an incoherent—“I’m only—asleep! So—very—tired!”

With a sharp exclamation the Editor leapt upwards, and the drowsy Margot felt herself suddenly hoisted to her feet by a pair of strong arms. The arms retained their hold of her even after she was erect, shaking her to and fro with almost painful energy.

“But you must not sleep! Margot, Margot, awake! I can’t let you sleep. It is the worst thing you could do. Speak to me, Margot. Tell me you understand. Margot! Darling! Oh, do rouse yourself, and try to understand!”

Margot never forgot that moment, or the wonder of it. She seemed to herself to be wandering in a strange country, far, far away from the solid tangible earth—a land of darkness and dreams, of strange, numbing unreality. Her eyes were open, yet saw nothing: impalpable chains fettered her limbs, so that they grew stiff and refused to move; an icy coldness crept around her heart. Hearing, like the other senses, was dulled, yet through the throbbing silence a sound had penetrated, bringing with it a thrill of returning life. Some one had called “Margot” in a tone she had never heard before. Some one had said, “Darling!”

Back through the fast-closing mists of unconsciousness Margot’s soul struggled to meet her mate. Her fingers tightened feebly on his, and her cold lips breathed a reply.

“Yes—I am here! Do you want me?”

Something like a sob sounded in the Editor’s throat.

“Do I want you? My little Margot! Did I ever want anything before? Come, I will warm your little cold hands. I will lead you every step of the way. You can’t sit here any longer to perish of cold. We will walk on, and ask God to guide our feet. Lean on me. Don’t be afraid!”

Then the dream became a moving one, in which she was borne forward encircled by protecting arms; on and on; unceasingly onward, with ever-increasing difficulty and pain.

George Elgood never knew whether he hit, as he supposed, a straight road forward, or wandered aimlessly over the same ground. His one care was to support his companion, and to test each footstep before he took it; for the rest, he had put himself in God’s hands, with a simple faith which expected a reply; and when at last the light of the cottage windows shone feebly through the mist his thankfulness was as great as his relief.

As for Margot, she was too completely exhausted to realise relief; she knew only a shrinking from the light, from the strange watching face; a deathly sensation as of falling from a towering height, before darkness and oblivion overpowered her, and she lay stretched unconscious upon the bed.

Chapter Twenty Four.

A Proud Moment.

Margot’s recovery was somewhat tedious, so that it was quite three weeks after the departure of the brothers Elgood before she was strong enough to face the journey home. In the meantime Edith remained in charge as nurse, while Mr Vane and Ron varied the monotony of life in the Glen by making short excursions of two or three days’ duration to places of interest in the neighbourhood.

Notwithstanding the unchanged position of affairs, they appeared to be on unusually good terms, a fact which would have delighted Margot if she had been in her usual health and spirits; but she had become of late so languid and preoccupied as to appear almost unconscious of her surroundings. Once a day she did, indeed, rouse herself sufficiently to show some interest in passing events, that is to say, when the post arrived in the morning; but the revival was but momentary, and on each occasion was followed by a still deeper depression.

The elder sister was very tender during those days of waiting; very tactful and patient with little outbursts of temper and unreasonable changes of mind. She knew that it was not so much physical as mental suffering which was retarding the girl’s progress, and yearned over her with a sympathy that was almost maternal in its depth.

The little sister had proved herself such a true friend during the trials of the last few years, that she would have gone through fire and water to save her from pain; but there are some things which even the most devoted relative cannot do.

Edith could not, for instance, write to George Elgood and question him concerning his silence: could not ask how it came to pass that while his brother had written to Margot, to Ronald, even to herself, he remained silent, content to send commonplace messages through a third person. As for Margot herself, she never mentioned the younger of the two brothers, but was always ready to talk about the elder, and seemed unaffectedly pleased at her sister’s appreciation of the kindly, genial little man.

“But why was he so sweet to me?” Edith would ask, with puzzled wonderment. “From the moment I arrived he seemed to be on the outlook to see how he could help. And he took an interest in Jack, and asked all about him and his affairs. The astonishing thing is that I told him, too! Though he was a stranger, his interest was so real and deep that I could confide in him more easily than in many old friends. Had you been talking about us to him, by any chance?”

Margot turned her head on the pillow, and stared out of the window to the ridge of hills against the skyline. Her cheeks had sunk, making the brown eyes appear pathetically large and worn. There was a listlessness in her expression which was strangely different from the vivacious, self-confident Margot of a few weeks ago.

“Yes, I spoke about you one day. He liked you, because you were so fond of Jack. He was in love himself, and the girl died, but he loves her still, just the same. He tries to help other girls for her sake. He said he wanted to know you. If it were ever in his power to help you and Jack, he would do it; but sometimes no one can help. It makes things worse when they try. You might just as well give up at once.”

“Margot! What heresy, dear! From you, too, who are always preaching courage and perseverance! That’s pneumonia croaking, not the gallant little champion of the family! What would Ron and I have done without you this last year, I should like to know? Isn’t it nice to see father and the boy on such good terms? I believe that also is in a great degree due to Mr Elgood’s influence. The pater told me that he congratulated him on having such a son, and seemed to think Ron quite unusually gifted. It is wonderful how much one man thinks of another man’s judgment! We have said the same thing for years past, and it has had no effect; but when a calm, level-headed man of business drops a word, it is accepted as gospel. You will be happy, won’t you, darling, if Ron’s future is harmoniously arranged?”

“Ron will be happy!” said Margot shortly. At the moment it seemed to her as if such good fortune could never again be her own. She must always be miserable, since George Elgood cared so little for her that he could disappear into space and leave her without a word. Formal messages sent through another person did not count, when one recalled the tone of the voice which had said, “Margot!” and blushed at the remembrance of that other word which had followed.

Sometimes, during those long days of convalescence, Margot almost came to the conclusion that what she had heard had been the effect of imagination only; as unreal and dream-like as the other events of that fateful afternoon. At other times, as if in contradiction of these theories, every intonation of the Editor’s voice would ring in her ears, and once again she would flush and tremble with happiness.

At last the day arrived when the return to town need no longer be delayed. Mr Vane was anxious to return to his work, Edith to her husband and children; and the doctor pronounced Margot strong enough to bear the journey in the comfortable invalid carriage which had been provided.

Preparations were therefore made for an early start, and poor Elspeth made happy by such a wholesale legacy of garments as composed a very trousseau in the estimation of the Glen.

No one was bold enough to offer a gift to Mrs McNab, but when the last moment arrived Margot lifted her white face with lips slightly pursed, like a child asking for a kiss. As on the occasion of her first appearance, a contortion of suppressed emotion passed over the dour Scotch face, and something suspiciously like moisture trembled in the cold eyes.

“When ye come back again, come back twa!” was the enigmatical sentence with which the landlady made her adieu, and a faint colour flickered in Margot’s cheek as she pondered over its significance.

The journey home was broken by a night spent in Perth, and London was reached on the afternoon of a warm July day. The trees in the Park looked grey with dust, the air felt close and heavy after the exhilaration of the mountain breezes to which the travellers had become accustomed; even the house itself had a heavy, stuffy smell, despite the immaculate cleanliness of its rÉgime.

Jack Martin was waiting to take his wife back to Oxford Terrace, the children having already preceded her, and Margot felt a sinking of loneliness at being left to Agnes’s tender mercies.

“Dear me, child, what a wreck you look! Your Highland holiday has been a fine upset for us all. What did I tell you before you started? Perhaps another time you may condescend to listen to what I say!” Such was the ingratiating welcome bestowed upon the weary girl on her arrival; yet when Margot turned aside in silence, and made no response to the accompanying kiss of welcome, Agnes felt hurt and aggrieved. From morning to night she had bustled about the house, assuring herself that everything was in apple-pie order; arranging flowers, putting out treasures of fancy-work, providing comforts for the invalid. “And she never notices, nor says one word of thanks. I can’t understand Margot!” said poor Agnes to herself for the hundredth time, as she seated herself at the head of the table for dinner.

“Are there any letters for me, Agnes?” queried Margot anxiously.

“One or two, I believe, and a paper or something of the sort. You can see them after dinner.”

“I want them now!” said Margot obstinately. She pushed back her chair from the table, and walked across the room to the desk where newly-arrived letters were laid out to await the coming of their owners. Three white envelopes lay there, and a rolled-up magazine, all addressed to herself. She flushed expectantly as she bent to examine the different handwritings. Two were uninterestingly familiar, belonging to faithful girl friends who had hastened to welcome her home; the third was unmistakably a man’s hand,—small and compact, the letters fine, and accurately formed.

A blessed intuition told Margot that her waiting was at an end, and that this was the message for which she had longed ever since her return to consciousness. With a swift movement she slipped the envelope into her pocket, to be opened later on in the privacy of her room, and returned to the table, bearing the other communications in her hand.

“I should have thought that after six weeks’ absence from home you might have been willing to talk to me, instead of wanting to read letters at your very first meal!” said Agnes severely; and Margot laughed in good-natured assent.

“I won’t open them! It was only curiosity to see what they were. I’ll talk as much as you like, Aggie dear.”

It was, all of a sudden, so easy to be amiable and unselfish! The nervous irritation which had made it difficult to be patient, even with dear, tactful Edie during the last weeks, had taken wing and departed with the first sight of that square white envelope. The light came back to Margot’s eyes; she held her head erect, the very hollows in her cheeks seemed miraculously to disappear, and to be replaced by the old dimpling smile. Mr Vane and Ron exchanged glances of delight at the marvellous manner in which their invalid had stood the journey home.

The letters and parcel lay unnoticed on the table until the conclusion of the meal, but as Margot picked them up preparatory to carrying them upstairs to her own room, she gave a sudden start of astonishment.

“Ron, it’s the Loadstar! Some one has sent me a copy of the Loadstar. From the office, I think, for the name is printed on the cover. Who could it be?”

“The Editor, of course—as a mark of attention on your return home. Lazy beggar! It was easier than writing a letter,” laughed Ron easily, stretching out his hand as he spoke to take forcible possession, for the magazine was of more interest to himself than to Margot, and he felt that a new copy was just what was needed to occupy the hours before bedtime.

Margot made no demur, but stood watching quietly while Ron tore off the wrapper, and flattened the curled paper. She was not in a reading mood, but the suggestion that George Elgood might have sent the magazine made it precious in her sight, and she waited anxiously for its return.

“It’s mine, Ron. It was sent to me! I want to take it upstairs.”

“Let me look at the index first, to see who is writing this month! You don’t generally care for such stiff reading; I say, there’s a fine collection of names! It’s stronger than ever this month. I don’t believe there is another paper in the world which has such splendid fellows for contribu—”

Ron stopped short, his voice failing suddenly in the middle of the word. His jaw dropped, and a wave of colour surged in his cheeks.

“It—it can’t be!” he gasped incredulously. “It can’t! There must be another man of the same name. It can’t possibly be meant for me!...”

“What? What? Let me see? What are you talking about?” cried Margot, peering eagerly over his shoulder, while Ron pointed with a trembling finger to the end of the table of contents. Somehow the words seemed to be printed in a larger type than the rest. They grew larger and larger until they seemed to fill the whole page—“Solitude. A Fragment. By Ronald Vane!”

“Oh, Ron, it is!” shrieked Margot, in happy excitement. “It is you, and no one else! I told you it was beautiful when you read it to me that day in the Glen! Oh, when did you send it to him?”

“Never! I never so much as mentioned my verses in his hearing. That was part of the bargain—that we should not worry him on his holiday. Margot, it was you! You are only pretending that you know nothing about it. It must be your doing.”

“Indeed it isn’t! I never even spoke of you to him.” Margot had the grace to blush at the confession; but by this time Ron had turned over the pages until he had come to the one on which his own words faced him in the beautiful distinct typing of the magazine, and the rapture of the moment precluded every other sentiment. He did not hear what Margot said, so absorbed was he in re-reading the lines in their delightful new setting.

“It is good; but it is only a fragment. It isn’t finished. Why was this chosen, instead of one of the others?”

“I told you you would ruin it if you made it longer. It is perfect as it is, and anything more would be padding. It is a little gem, worthy even of a place in the Loadstar. Father, do you hear? Do you understand? Look at your son’s name among all those great men! Aren’t you glad? Aren’t you proud! Aren’t you going to congratulate us both?”

Mr Vane growled a little, for the sake of appearances; but though his eyebrows frowned, the corners of his lips relaxed in a manner distinctly complacent. Even recognising as he did the herald of defeat, it was impossible to resist a thrill of pride as his eye glanced down the imposing list of names held open for his inspection. A great scientist; a great statesman; a leading author; an astronomer known throughout the world; a soldier veteran, and near the end that other name, so dearly familiar—the name of his own son! The voice in which he spoke was gruff with emotion. “Humph! You are in good company, at least. Let me see the verses themselves. There must be something in them, I suppose, but I am no judge of these things.”

Chapter Twenty Five.

“In Corn.”

Meantime Margot had returned to the far end of the room, and adroitly slipped the third letter out of her pocket, feeling that it would be selfish to delay reading the contents, as they must certainly cast some light upon the present situation. Her heart sank a little as she recognised that the attention was less personal than she had imagined, but even so, it was to herself that the magazine had been directed, and that was an evidence of the fact that in publishing the poem her pleasure had been considered even more than Ronald’s advancement.

She tore open the stiff white envelope and read as follows:—

“Dear Miss Vane,—

“I hear that you are to arrive home this afternoon, and intend to take the liberty of calling upon you after dinner, in the hope that you may be able to give me a few minutes of uninterrupted conversation on a subject of great importance. If you are too much fatigued after your journey, pray have no scruples in refusing me admission, in which case I shall take an early opportunity of calling again; but after the strain of the past few weeks I do not find myself able to wait longer than is absolutely necessary for an interview.

“Yours faithfully,—

“George Elgood.”

“Is that from Elgood? What does he say? What does he say? Let us see what he says!” petitioned Ron eagerly; but Margot returned the letter to her pocket, resolutely ignoring his outstretched hand.

“He gives no explanation, but he is coming to-night. Coming to call after dinner, and he asks me to see him alone, so I’ll find out all about it, and tell you afterwards.”

“Alone!” Ron’s face was eloquent with surprise, disappointment, and a dawning suspicion. “Why alone? It’s more my affair than yours. I must thank him before he goes.”

“I’ll send for you, then. I suppose he wants to explain to me first. I’ll be sure to send for you!” reiterated Margot hurriedly, as she disappeared through the doorway. Her first impulse was, girl-like, to make for her own room, to give those final touches to hair and dress, which are so all-important in effect, and that done, to sit alone, listening for the expected knock at the door, the sound of footsteps ascending to the drawing-room. To meet George Elgood here! To see his tall dark figure outlined against the familiar background of home,—Margot gasped at the thought, and felt her heart leap painfully at every fresh sound.

The postman, the parcels delivery, a van from the Stores, had all claimed the tribute of a blush, a gasp, and a fresh rush to the glass, before at last slow footsteps were heard mounting the stairs, and Mary’s voice at the door announced, “A gentleman to see you, Miss Margot!” and in another minute, as it seemed, she was facing George Elgood across the length of the drawing-room.

The rÔles of invalid and anxious inquirer seemed for the moment to be reversed, for while she was pink and smiling, he was grave and of a ghastly pallor. Nervous also; for the first words of greeting were an unintelligible murmur, and they seated themselves in an embarrassed silence.

“You—er—you received my letter?”

“Yes!” Margot gazed at the tips of her dainty slippers, and smiled softly to herself. In the interval which had passed since they last met, the Editor had evidently suffered a relapse into his old shyness and reserve. She had guessed as much from the somewhat stilted phraseology of his letter, and was prepared to reassure him by her own outspoken gratitude.

“Yes; I was so pleased!”

He gave a little start of astonishment, and stared at her with bright, incredulous eyes.

“Pleased? You mean it? You did not think it a liberty—”

“Indeed I did not. I guessed what you had to tell me, and it made me so happy.”

He leaned forward impetuously, the blood flushing his cheeks.

“You had guessed before? You knew it was coming?”

“Not exactly, but I hoped—”

“Hoped!—Margot, is it possible that you have cared, too? It seems too wonderful to be true.—I never dreamt of such amazing happiness. At the best it seemed possible that you would be willing to give me a hearing. I did not dare to write, but this time of waiting has seemed as if it would never end...”

As he began to speak Margot faced him with candid eyes, but at the sound of his voice, and at sight of the answering flash of his eyes, her lids quivered and fell, and she shrank back against the cushions of her chair. Astonishment overwhelmed her; but the relief, the thankfulness, the rapture of the moment obliterated everything else. She gave a strangled sob of emotion and said faintly—

“It—it has seemed long to me, too!”

At that he was on his knees before her, clasping her hands and gazing at her with an expression of rapturous relief. “Oh, Margot, my darling, was it because I was not there? Have you missed me? Not as I have missed you—that is not possible, but enough to remember me sometimes, and to be glad to meet again. Have you thought of me at all, Margot?”

“I—I have thought of nothing else!” sighed Margot. She was generous with her assurance, knowing the nature of the man with whom she had to deal, and her reward was the sight of the illumined face turned upon her.

There, in a corner of a modern drawing-room, with a glimpse of a London street between the curtain folds, Margot and George Elgood found the Eden which is discovered afresh by all true lovers. Such moments are too sacred for intrusion; they live enshrined in memory until the end of life.

It was not until a considerable time had flown by that Margot recalled the events of the earlier evening, and with them still another claim held by her lover upon her gratitude and devotion. Drawing back, so as to lift her charming face to his—a rosy, sparkling face, unrecognisable as the same white and weary visage of a few hours back, she laid her hand on his, and said sweetly—

“We went off at a tangent, didn’t we? I don’t know how we went off, and forgot the real business of the evening; but I never finished thanking you! You must think me terribly ungrateful!”

George Elgood regarded her with puzzled, adoring eyes.

“I haven’t the least idea what you are talking about, but what does it matter? What does anything matter, except that we love each other, and are the happiest creatures on earth? Business, indeed! Why need we trouble ourselves to talk about business? Margot, do you know that you have a dimple in the middle of your cheek? The most beautiful dimple in the world!”

Margot shook her head at him with a pretence of disapproval, smiling the while, so as to show off the dimple to the best advantage.

“You mustn’t make me conceited. I am vain enough already to know that you love me, and have taken so much trouble to please me. It was kind of you!”

“What was kind, sweetheart? There is no kindness in loving you. I had no choice in the matter, for I simply could not help myself!”

“Ah, but you know what I mean! You have given me my two greatest desires! I can’t tell you how happy I was when I saw it.”

He stared at her for a moment, then smiled complacently.

“You mean—my note?”

“No, I didn’t mean your note. Not this time. I meant the magazine!”

“Magazine!”

The accent of bewilderment was unmistakably genuine, and Margot hastened to explain still further.

“The new number of the Loadstar with Ron’s poem in it!”

“Ron’s poem!” The note of bewilderment was accentuated to one of positive incredulity. “A poem by your brother in the Loadstar! I did not know that he wrote at all.”

Now it was Margot’s turn to stare and frown.

“You didn’t know! But you must have known. How else could it get in? You must have given permission.”

“My sweetheart, what have I to do with the Loadstar, or any other magazine? What has my permission to do with it?”

“Everything in the world! Oh, I know exactly what has happened. Your brother has told you about Ron, and showed you his verses, and you put them in for his sake—and mine! Because you knew I should be pleased, and because they are good too, and you were glad to help him. He is longing to come in to thank you himself. We shall both thank you all our lives!”

George Elgood’s face of stupefaction was a sight to behold. His forehead was corrugated with lines of bewilderment; he stared at her in blankest dismay.

“What are you talking about, sweetheart? What does it all mean? Your brother has no need to thank me for any success which he has gained. I should have been only too delighted to help him in any way that was in my power, but I have no influence with the Loadstar Magazine.”

“No influence! How can that be when you are the Editor?”

“I am the What?”

“Editor! You have every influence. You are the magazine!”

George Elgood rose to his feet with a gesture of strongest astonishment.

“I the Editor of a magazine! My dearest little girl, what are you dreaming about? There never was a man less suited to the position. I know nothing whatever of magazines—of any sort of literature. I am in corn!”

A corn merchant! Margot’s brain reeled. She lay back in her chair, staring at him with wide, stunned eyes, too utterly prostrated by surprise to be capable of speech!

Chapter Twenty Six.

An Interview with the Editor.

Could it be believed that it was the Chieftain who was the Editor, after all! That short, fat, undignified, commonplace little man! “Not in the least the type,”—so Ron had pronounced, in his youthful arrogance, “No one would ever suspect you of being literary!” so saucy Margot had declared to his face. She blushed at the remembrance of the words, blushed afresh, as, one after another, a dozen memories rushed through her brain. That afternoon by the tarn, for example, when she had summoned courage to confess her scheme, and he had lain prone on the grass, helpless and shaken with laughter!

No wonder that he had laughed! but oh, the wickedness, the duplicity of the wretch, to breathe no word of her mistake, but promptly set to work to weave a fresh plot on his own account! This was the reason why he had extracted a promise that George was not to be told of Ron’s ambition during his holiday, feigning an anxiety for his brother’s peace of mind, which he was in reality doing his best to destroy! This was the explanation of everything that had seemed mysterious and contradictory. He had been laughing in his sleeve all the time he had pretended to help!

George Elgood listened with a mingling of amaze, amusement, and tenderness to the hidden history of the weeks at Glenaire. Being in the frame of mind when everything that Margot did seemed perfect in his eyes, he felt nothing but admiration for her efforts on her brother’s behalf.

It was an ingenious, unselfish little scheme, and the manner in which she had laid it bare to the person most concerned was delightfully unsophisticated. He laughed at her tenderly, stroking her soft, pretty hair with his big man’s hand, the while he explained that he was a business man pure and simple, and had made no excursions whatever into literature; that the “writing” with which he had been occupied was connected with proposed changes in his firm, and a report of a technical character.

Margot flamed with indignation, but before the angry words had time to form themselves on her lips, the thought occurred that after all the help vouchsafed to her had been no pretence, but a very substantial reality. Ron’s foot had been placed on the first rung of the ladder, while as for herself, what greater good could she have found to desire than that which, through the Chieftain’s machinations, had already come to pass? She lifted her face to meet the anxious, adoring gaze bent upon her, and cried hurriedly—

“He—he meant it all the time! He meant it to happen!”

“Meant what, darling?”

“This!”

Margot waved her hand with a gesture sufficiently expressive, whereat her lover laughed happily.

“Bless him! of course he did. He has been badgering me for years past to look out for a wife; and when we met you he was clever enough to realise that you were the one woman to fill the post. If he had said as much to me at that stage of affairs, I should have packed up and made off within the hour; if he had said it to you, you would have felt it incumbent upon you to do the same. Instead, he let you go on in your illusion, while he designed the means of throwing us into each other’s society. Good old Geoff! I’m not at all angry with him. Are you?”

Margot considered the point, her head tilted to a thoughtful angle.

“I’m—not—sure! I think I am, just a little bit, for I hate to be taken in. He was laughing at me all the time.”

“But after all, he has done what you wished! I envy him for being able to give you such pleasure; but perhaps I may be able to do as much in another way. Geoff tells me that Mr Martin has had financial troubles, and there is nothing I would not do to help any one who belongs to you. I’m out of my depths in poetry, but in business matters I can count, and in this case I shall not be satisfied until I do.”

Margot drew a long breath of contentment. “Oh, if Jack is happy, and Ron is successful, and I have—You!—there will be nothing left to wish for in all the world. Poor Ron! he is waiting eagerly to come in to thank you for publishing his verse, and wondering why in the world you wanted to see me alone. Don’t you think you ought just to read it, to be able to say it is nice?”

“No, I don’t! You are all the poetry I can attend to to-night, and for goodness’ sake keep him away; I shall have to interview your father later on, but after waiting all these weeks I must have you to myself a little longer.”

“Oh, I won’t send for him. I don’t want him a bit,” cried Margot naÏvely, “but he will come!”

And he did!

Waiting downstairs in the study, an hour seemed an absurd length of time, and when no summons came Ron determined to take the law in his own hands and join the conference. The tableau which was revealed to him on opening the drawing-room door struck him dumb with amazement, and the explanations which ensued appeared still more extraordinary.

George Elgood speedily beat a retreat to the study, where Mr Vane listened to his request with quiet resignation. Elderly, grey-haired fathers have a way of seeing more than their children suspect, and Margot’s father had recognised certain well-known signs in the manner in which he had been questioned concerning his daughter’s progress during those anxious days at Glenaire. His heart sank as he listened to the lover’s protestations, but he told himself that he ought to be thankful to know that his little Margot had chosen a man of unblemished character, who was of an age to appreciate his responsibility, possessed an income sufficient to keep her in comfort, and, last but not least, a home within easy distance of his own.

Late that evening, when her lover had taken his departure, Margot stole down to the study and sat silently for a time on her old perch on the arm of her father’s chair, with her head resting lovingly against his own. He was thankful to feel her dear presence, and to know that she wished to be near him on this night of all others, but his heart was too full to speak, and it was she who at last spoke the first words.

“I never knew,” she said softly, “I never knew that it was possible to be as happy as this. It’s so wonderful! One can’t realise it all. Father dear, I’ve been thinking of you! ... I never realised before what it meant to you when mother died—all that you lost! You have been good, and brave, and unselfish, dear, and we must have tried you sorely many times. We didn’t understand, but I understand a little bit now, daddy, and it makes me love you more. You’ll remember, won’t you, that this is going to draw us closer together, not separate us one little bit? You’ll be sure to remember?”

“Bless you, dear!” he said, and stroked her hand with tender fingers. “It is sweet to hear you say so, at least. I’m glad you are going to be happy, and if I am to give you away at all, I am glad it is to a strong, sensible man whom I can trust and respect; but it will be a sad day for me when you leave the old home, Margot.”

Margot purred over him with tenderest affection.

“How I wish Agnes would marry!”

“What has that to do with it, pray?”

“Then you could live with me, of course! I should love it,” said Margot warmly; and though her father had no intention of accepting such an invitation, it remained through life a solace to him to remember that it had been in the girl’s heart to wish it.

Next morning at twelve o’clock a daintily attired damsel ascended a dusty staircase in Fleet Street and desired to see the Editor in his den. The dragon who guarded the fastness inquired of her if she had an appointment, and, unsoftened by the charm of her appearance, volunteered the information that Mr Elgood would see no stray callers.

“He will see me!” returned Margot arrogantly; and she was right, for, to the surprise of the messenger, the sight of the little printed card was followed by an order to “Show the lady in at once.”

A moment later Margot made her first entrance into an Editor’s den, and round the corner of a big desk caught a glimpse of a decorous, black-coated figure whom at first sight it was difficult to associate with the light-hearted Chieftain of Glenaire. As they confronted each other, however, the round face twinkled into a smile, which served as fuel to the girl’s indignation. She stopped short, ostentatiously disregarding the outstretched hand, drew her brows together, and proclaimed haughtily—

“I have come to let you know that you are found out. I know all about it now. You have been laughing at me all the time?”

“Well,—very nearly!” he assented smilingly. “You are such a nice little girl to laugh at, you see, and it was an uncommonly good joke! Do you remember the day when you confided to me solemnly that you had journeyed to Scotland on purpose to stalk me, and run me to earth? You’d have been a bit embarrassed if I’d told you the truth then and there, wouldn’t you now? And besides—I see quite enough of literary aspirants all the year round. It was a bit hard to be hunted down on one’s holidays. I felt bound to prevaricate, for the sake of my own peace. Then again there was George! Where would George have come in? If I had confessed my identity, should I have been kept awake, as I was last night, listening to his rhapsodies by the hour together? By the way, we are going to be near relatives. Don’t you want to shake hands?”

“I’m very angry indeed!” maintained Margot stubbornly—nevertheless her hand was in his, and her fingers involuntarily returned his pressure. “Are you—glad! Do you think I shall—do? Does he seem really happy?”

“Ah, my dear!” he sighed, and over the plump features there passed once more the expression of infinite longing which Margot had seen once before, when, in a moment of confidence, he had spoken of his dead love. “Ah, my dear, how happy he is! There is no word to express such happiness! George has not frittered away his affections on a number of silly flirtations—his heart is whole, and it is wholly yours. Do you owe me no thanks for bringing you together? You wanted to help your brother; I wanted to help mine; so we are equally guilty or praiseworthy, as the case may be. For myself I am very well satisfied with the result?”

Margot blushed, and cast down her eyes.

“I’m satisfied, too!” she said shyly. “Much more than satisfied—and Ron is enraptured. Have you seen him? He said he was coming to see you first thing this morning!”

“Have I seen him, indeed? I should think I had! I thought I should never get rid of the boy. I told him straight that the magazine comes first to me, and that not even a prospective sister-in-law—with dimples!—could induce me to accept a line for publication otherwise than on its own merits. But the boy has power. I can’t tell yet how far it may go, but it’s worth encouraging. When he gave me his manuscript book to read I was struck by one fragment, and wrote it out in shorthand, to publish as a surprise to you both. I like the lad, and will be glad to help him so far as it is in my power. I can give him a small post in this office, where at least he will be in the atmosphere; but after that his future rests with himself. What he writes that is worth publishing, I will publish, but it will be judged on its merits alone, and without any remembrance of his private associations. He will have his chance!”

He put out his hands and held her gently by the elbows, smiling at her the while with the kindliest of smiles.

“Now are you satisfied, little girl? From the moment that you looked at me with her eyes, and asked my help, I have had no better wish than to give it. I did not set about it quite in your own way, perhaps, but the end is the same. Don’t trouble any more about the lad, but let me smooth the way with your father, while you devote yourself to George. His happiness is in your hands. Be good to him! He looks upon you as an angel from heaven! Be an angel for his sake! He sees in you everything that is good, and pure, and womanly. Be what he believes! Humanly speaking, his life is yours, and these little hands will draw him more strongly than any power in the world. It’s a big responsibility, little girl, but I am not afraid! I know a good woman when I see one, and can trust George to your care. You will be very happy. I wonder if in the midst of your happiness you will sometimes remember—a lonely man?”

Margot twisted herself quickly from his grasp, and her arms stretched out and encircled his neck. She did not speak, but her lips, pressed against his cheek, gave an assurance more eloquent than words.

The End.