Big Game Part 25

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!" pet.i.tioned 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 gla.s.s, 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 roles 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 embarra.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 rea.s.sure him by her own outspoken grat.i.tude.

"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 a.s.surance, 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 grat.i.tude 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.