"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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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 THREE.

PARTINGS.

It was six days later when Margot opened her eyes, and found herself lying on the little white bed in the bedroom of the Nag's Head, with some one by the window whose profile as outlined against the light seemed strangely and sweetly familiar. She stared dumbly, with a confused wonder in her brain. _Edith_? It could not possibly be Edith!

What should bring Edith up to Glenaire in this sudden and unexpected fashion? And why was she herself so weak and languid that to speak and ask the question seemed an almost impossible exertion?

What had happened? Was she only dreaming that her head ached, and her hands seemed too heavy to move, and that Edith sat by the window near a table covered with medicine bottles and gla.s.ses? Margot blinked her eyes, and stared curiously around. No! it was no dream; she was certainly awake, and through the dull torpor of her brain a remembrance began slowly to work. Something had happened! She had been tired and cold; oh, cold, cold, cold; so cold that it had seemed impossible to live. She had wandered on and on, through an eternity of darkness, which had ended in the blackness of night. Her head throbbed with the effort of thinking; she shut her eyes and lay quietly, waiting upon remembrance.

Suddenly it came. A faint flush of colour showed itself in the white cheek, and a tingle of warmth ran through the veins. She remembered now upon whose arm she had hung, whose voice it was which had cheered her onward; in trembling, incredulous fashion she remembered what that voice had said!

A faint exclamation sounded through the stillness, whereupon Edith looked round quickly, and hurried to the bedside.

"Margot! My darling! Do you know me at last?"

Margot smiled wanly. The smooth rounded face had fallen away sadly in that week of fever and unconsciousness, and a little hand was pushed feebly forward.

"Of course. I'm so glad! Edie, have I been ill?"

"Yes, darling; but you are better now. After a few days' rest you will be well again. You must not be nervous about your dear self."

"And you came?"

"Yes, darling; Ron telegraphed, and father and I came up at once. Agnes is taking care of the boys."

"So kind! I remember--it was the mist. Was--Ron--safe?"

"Yes, darling, quite safe. He and Mr Elgood arrived at the cottage very soon after you, and were so thankful to find you there."

"Is--is _everybody_ well?"

Again that faint flush showed on the cheeks; but Edie was mercifully blind, and answered with direct simplicity--

"Every one, dear, and you are going to be quite well, too. You must not talk any more just now, for you are rather a weak little girl still.

Drink this cup of milk, and roll over, and have another nap. It is good to see you sleeping quietly and peacefully again. There! Shut your eyes, like a good girl!"

Then once more Margot floated off into unconsciousness; but this time it was the blessed, health-restoring unconsciousness of sleep, such sleep as she had not known for days past, and from which she awoke with rested body and clearer brain.

When the dear father came in to kiss and greet her, a thin white hand crept up to stroke his hair, and pull his ear in the way he loved, whereupon he blinked away tears of thankfulness, and essayed to be fierce and reproachful.

"So you couldn't be satisfied until you had dragged the whole family after you, to the ends of the earth! There's no pleasing some people.

This is my reward for being such a fool as to think you could take care of yourself!"

"Ducky Doodles!" murmured Margot fondly. As of yore, she manifested not the faintest alarm at his pretence of severity, but twitched his ear with complacent composure, and once more Mr Vane blinked and swallowed a lump in his throat. There had been hours during those last days when he had feared that he might never again hear himself called "Ducky Doodles," and what a sad grey world that would have meant!

Then came Ron, a little embarra.s.sed, as was natural in a lad of his years, but truly loving and tender all the same, and Margot's brown _eyes_ searched his face with wistful questioning.

There was so much that she wanted to ask and to hear, and concerning which no one had as yet vouchsafed information. Ron could tell her all that was to be told, which it was impossible to pa.s.s another night without knowing, yet there he sat, sublimely unconscious that she wanted to be a.s.sured of anything but his own safety. With the energy of despair, Margot forced herself to put a question.

"How are all--the others?"

"The Elgoods? They are all right. Awfully worried about you, you know, and that sort of thing. Afraid the governor might think they were to blame. The idea of your going down with pneumonia, and frightening us all into fits! I thought you were too healthy to be bowled over so soon, but a London life doesn't fit one for exposure. The governor was furious with me for bringing you to the North."

But for once Margot was not interested in her father's feelings. She turned her head on the pillow and put yet another question.

"They did not catch colds, too?"

"Oh, colds!" Ron laughed lightly. "Of course, we all had colds; what else could you expect? We were lucky to get off so easily. The Elgoods put off leaving until you were safely round the corner, but they are off first thing to-morrow."

At this there was a quick rustle of the bedclothes.

"Going? _Where_?" asked a startled voice, in which sounded an uncontrollable quiver of apprehension. "Not away for altogether?"

"Yes! Their time was up three days ago. It is awfully decent of them to have stayed on for so long. We shall meet in town, I suppose; but your Editor man is no use to me, Margot. That little scheme has fallen flat. From first to last he has never troubled to show the faintest interest in my existence, and has avoided the governor all he knew. The Chieftain is worth a dozen of him. He has kept the whole thing going this last week, amused the governor, looked after Edith, been a perfect brick to me. I'm glad we came, if it were only for the sake of making his acquaintance, for he is the grandest man I've ever known; but your scheme has failed, old girl."

From Margot's expression it would appear that everything on earth had failed. Her face looked as white as the pillow against which she rested, and her eyes were tragic in her despairing sadness. Ron bestirred himself to comfort her, full of grat.i.tude for so heartfelt an interest.

"Never mind! You did your best, and it's n.o.body's fault that he turned out such a Diogenes. The governor has been awfully decent since he came up, and I don't despair of getting the time extended. He is much more amenable, apart from Agnes, and I fancy the Chieftain puts in a good word for me now and then--not on the score of literature, of course--but after they have been talking together, the governor always seems to look upon me with more--more _respect_, don't you know, and less as if I were a hopeless failure, of whom he was more or less ashamed. That's a gain in itself, isn't it?"

"'Um!" a.s.sented Margot vaguely. "I suppose they drive over to catch the evening express? Did he--they--say anything about me?"

Ron started in surprise.