Chapter X: Margaret's Legacy

ALICK and Mrs. Chantry drove home in Courtenay's carriage, which had waited for them while the service was read. And after Alick had accompanied his mother to the cottage door, he went in to The Towers to enquire if Margaret wanted any help in her unpacking.

He found her, however, sitting quietly in the dining-room doing nothing, her work-basket by her side, but her hands folded in her lap.

One glance at her face showed him that she had been crying.

He came in and sat down near her. "It was very nice," he said gently, "so peaceful and still!"

"Did mother seem pleased to see Courtenay?" she asked without raising her eyes, hoping Alick would not notice the traces of tears.

"Very pleased indeed. I never saw such a change in anyone's face in a moment."

"Ah! He is good—" said Margaret, but she could not finish her sentence.

"Alick," she exclaimed at last, "it is of no use pretending. You must forgive me for being foolish, but I've been upset by something—"

"Dear Margaret, what?"

"I ought not to have been, but I was alone, and he was not here to be hurt by it. But when I opened my work-basket that I left at home, you know, this was the first thing I found."

She drew out the unfinished body of a delicate little white dress which she had been making for her tiny daughter before she started on their hurried journey to India.

"Dear Margaret," he said sympathizingly, "I wish I knew what to say to you."

"You cannot say anything, Alick. I know it all. Only to-day, coming back to the empty house where every corner was associated with her little presence, I have realized more keenly than ever before that—that I am childless."

Alick was silent; he was turning over the little dress almost reverently.

"They have whiter robes than these there," he murmured softly.

"Yes," answered Margaret.

She took it in her hand, folding it up, and placing it in her work-table drawer.

"I know it well, but to-day the sorrow has come fresh, and the joy has faded for a little while."

Then, closing the drawer, and turning round suddenly, she said with a hesitation in her tone very unlike herself, "Alick, how do you think he is looking?"

"Courtenay?" But Alick knew she meant no one else. "I hope he will be better now he is at home."

He had not answered her in words, but she saw well enough what he thought.

"It has been a very sad time for him," she said.

"And for you too," said Alick.

"Yes, but I have had so much to make up. He has been so very good to me, and then his generous welcome to my dear mother has made me so happy and grateful."

"Was he so kind over that?"

"Ah! If you could have seen. But no one but myself will ever know all about that; for, Alick, it is not a light care to take up, and some men would have grudged it even if they had thought it their duty to do it."

"And he did not grudge it?"

"Grudge it? But you know him better than that, Alick. What he does, he does freely always. He said my cares were his, and that I was never to imagine he had taken back his words, whatever anxiety and trouble we might be allowed in connection with it."

"That is just like Courtenay," said Alick.

"Is it not? And then he said what I shall never forget.—

"'If she had only been left to us as your mother, Margaret, it would have been our duty to care for her while life lasts, but our God has added to that a great privilege. He has sent us one of His redeemed ones, weak, and needing constant tending, who is hungering and thirsting after righteousness; and He gives into our hands His blessed command to carry out "that she may be filled." I count it a great honour, Margaret.'

"Alick, ought not all that to make me happy?"

At this moment, Mrs. Bruce's slow step was heard in the passage. Alick hastened to open the door for her, and she bowed her head in acknowledgment, but did not appear to recognize him. He took her hand, and led her to the arm-chair by the fire.

"Dear mother," said Margaret rising, "this is Alick Chantry."

"I do not remember, my dear, but I am pleased to make his acquaintance."

Alick felt startled, but Margaret took it quite calmly.

"He used to be very kind to me years ago, and I love him very much," she said quietly.

"Then I shall love him too," answered Mrs. Bruce. "Your friends are always my friends, Margaret."

"Yes, mother," she answered. "Alick, mother is very fond of being read to, and you have such a nice voice. I daresay you will come in and see her sometimes."

"I shall be very glad to do so," answered Alick, feeling rather confused; for Mrs. Bruce looked so exactly like her old self in her handsome clothes and well-to-do air, that he could hardly divest himself of his old feelings, which had been somewhat of a distrustful kind, though he was hardly aware of the fact.

She went on again simply, in a strangely altered voice from the prompt, rather imperious tones he recalled so well, "But you must not be surprised if I forget what you read to me, Mr.—What did you say his name was, my dear?"

"Alick," answered Margaret tenderly.

"I thought you said another name. But you must not mind my forgetting what you read to me—Alick—for I do not remember anything now very well. I fancy I used to be proud to know a great many things, but now I am glad to know only one thing. I do not forget 'Jesus,' and He remembers 'me.'"

Alick took her hand in his, with the first feeling of love towards her he had ever had; in it his awe passed away, and he felt a great tenderness supplant it.

"I should like to read to you about Jesus very much," he said, "if you will let me."

She looked earnestly in his face as if some floating memory haunted her, but she did not say anything more.

"Alick," said Margaret, "is not that Courtenay coming in at the gate?"

"Yes," answered Alick, springing up; "and, Margaret, it must be our dinner-time at home."

"Stay here and have it with us to-day?" she asked; he thought wistfully.

"Margaret, I would; only that—"

"Ought you not, dear?"

"I must not forsake mother. Oh, Margaret, I have had to learn while you were away that I was too bound up in Courtenay!"

"Alick!"

He nodded.

"Who is bound up in Courtenay?" asked another voice.

Margaret smiled, and Alick looked up with more feeling in his eyes than he knew.

"Courtenay," he said, "you must help me to be watchful about it. From the day you went away, till the day of Lionel's accident, I was never in a decent humour. I should be ashamed to remember it, only that it is forgiven."

"We'll try to be more careful, dear boy," he answered earnestly.

And then he went over to his wife's side and put his arm round her shoulders, looking down in her upturned face.

"What have you been doing while I have been away, love?" he asked, seeing something unusual in her eyes.

"I have been talking to Alick part of the time. He has been so kind to me."

But she said nothing about the little frock, and Alick guessed she never would, not for years perhaps, till the poignancy of her husband's grief should have passed away.

When Alick got home, his mother was standing in the garden, holding seeds for Mr. Chantry, who was sowing busily.

"Let me do that, mother," he said, noticing that she looked tired.

"It is just dinner-time. These are the last," she said, giving them into Mr. Chantry's hand, and then she turned indoors.

"I thought perhaps Courtenay would have wanted you, Alick," she said, as he hung his hat up in the passage.

"Margaret did ask me, mother, but I am not going to run away from you so much."

Mrs. Chantry was touched at his tone. "My boy, I only want your good."

"I know that, mother, but I have seen lately that I was too much over there—did not enough make my pleasure at home."

"I saw it too, dear, but I did not know how to remedy it."

"I daresay you took the best way?" he asked archly.

She smiled. "Yes, Alick, but do not think, dear, that I do not wish you to be with them as often as ever you like. I have no such thought."

"I quite understand, mother. I shall try to be more watchful over myself."

A few mornings after this, Salome called Mrs. Chantry up to see Lionel's hand dressed.

It had not improved as quickly as his foot. The swelling had gone down, but it remained stiff and useless.

"And 't was not likely it should get better," Salome observed, as she and Mrs. Chantry stood looking at it.

"But why, Salome?" asked her mistress.

"'Cause it's my 'pinion as it's out of joint, misses, my dear. I've seen 'em like this in India. There was a bone doctor there, and he set 'em right in five minutes."

"I wish we had called in Dr. Smith, Salome."

Salome shook her head.

"You and me was best for him, misses, my dear. If this had been a sprain, he'd have been well almost by now. But as it isn't, we'd better take him to a bone-setter."

Mrs. Chantry quite agreed. But she said she should like to have Mrs. Malden's consent before they took any further steps.

Lionel had some time ago taken up his quarters in Alick's room. But on account of his still tender foot, he kept upstairs, living by day in the nursery, and limping about through the few little rooms, which he called taking change of air.

"To think," he said to Alick, "that I could ever have called this a poky hole! Why, it's been a palace of blessing to me. And this nursery, which I so despised—"

Alick smiled.

"We all love it, but places so depend on association."

"I think it's the most beautiful room I ever was in. But then, you see, Alick, it's been the gate of heaven to me, and that makes everything bright."

"Do you mind the children playing about?"

"Not a bit; I rather like it. Alick, I say, do you think Aunt Greta will let you go to Norwich with me about my wrist? Did you ever see such deformity?"

"You must have fallen smash upon it."

"I did; I know that much. It's the greatest wonder I did not roll off that rock into deep water. I should have gone like a stone to the bottom."

"Things are very wonderful."

"Alick, I wish you could help me downstairs into the garden presently. It's such a lovely spring day and I believe I have seen mother walking about in The Towers garden. Do you think it possible? It looked just like her."

"I daresay it was; for she and Uncle Malden were to move in there this morning; I heard so at breakfast."

"What a change it will be for them. Won't she be glad to see Muriel and Leslie again? And then there's Margaret and Mrs. Bruce."

"You will like to see Margaret, Lionel; she is so sweet."

"Is Mrs. Bruce very changed? But I have only seen her once, at Courtenay's marriage. I do not know her well."

"You would not think she was the same person, except in look."

"Well, Alick, now do see if I can hobble downstairs. Will not my dear mother be pleased to see me come walking along the path?"

"She will indeed."

"Did I ever tell you the message she sent to me, Alick?"

"No."

"She gave it to Salome one day in the garden.

"'Tell my boy,' she said, 'that his letter gave me greater happiness than I have known for years; and that I am sure of one thing, that if he wants to get "near," as he says; and hungers and thirsts after righteousness, he will know the blessedness of being "filled."'"