CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
MUSIC HATH CHARMS.
For the next two days it rained incessantly, and Margot sat in thelittle parlour of the inn talking to Mrs Macalister, or ratherlistening while Mrs Macalister talked, and playing draughts with MrMacalister, who had relapsed into hopeless gloom of mind, and was withdifficulty prevented from rushing home by the first train.
"The doctor said we were to keep him from the office for a good month atleast, and there's not three weeks of the time gone by. If he goes backnow, what will be the use of spending all this money on travelling andkeep, and what not? It will be all clean waste," sighed the poor damesadly. "He's a bit fratchety and irritable, I'm free to admit, but youshould not judge a man when his nerves are upset. There's not a betterman on earth than Mr Macalister when he has his health. It's dull fora man-body to be shut up in an inn, without the comforts of home, andfeeling all the time that there's money going out. It is different whenhe can be out and about with his fishing and what not.--If you couldjust 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 theweather clears."
It was not a congenial task, for, truth to tell, Mr Macalister was nota beguiling object, with his lugubrious face, lack-lustre eyes, andsandy, outstanding whiskers; nor did he in the first instance betray anygratitude for the attention bestowed upon him. A stolid glance over hisspectacles was his first response to Margot's overtures; his next, aseries of grunts and sniffs, and when at last he condescended to wordsit was invariably to deride or throw doubt on her statements.
"Tut, nonsense! Who told you that? I would think so, indeed!" followedby another and more determined retreat behind the _Glasgow Herald_.
In the corner of the room Mrs Macalister sat meekly knitting, neverventuring a look upwards so long as her spouse was in view, but urgingMargot onward by nods and winks and noiseless mouthings, the moment thatshe was safe from observation.
It had its comic side, but it was also somewhat pathetic. These twogood commonplace souls had travelled through life together side by sidefor over thirty years, and, despite age, infirmity, and "nearves", werestill lovers at heart. Before the wife's eyes the figure of "MrMacalister" loomed so large that it blocked out the entire world; tohim, even in this hour of depression, "the wife" was the one supremeauthority.
Fortunately for herself and her friends, Margot was gifted withsufficient insight to grasp the poetry behind the prose, and it gave herpatience to persevere. Solution came at last, in the shape of thewheezy old piano in the corner, opened in a moment of aimless wanderingto and fro. Margot was no great performer, but what she could play sheplayed by heart, and Nature had provided her with a sweet, thrush-likevoice, with that true musical thrill which no teaching can impart. Atthe first few bars of a Chopin nocturne Mr Macalister's newspaperwavered, and fell to his knee. Margot heard the rustle of it, slidgradually into a simpler melody, and was conscious of a heavy handwaving 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 toexpress any gratification, but that he had deigned to speak at all was adistinct advance, and equal to a whole volume of compliments fromanother man.
"Maybe," he added, after a pause, "if ye were to sing us a ballad itwould be less obsearved!"
So Margot sang, and, finding a book of Scotch selections, could gratifythe old man by selecting his favourite airs, and providing him with anexcuse to hum a gentle accompaniment. Music, it appeared, was MrMacalister's passion in life. As a young man he had been quite acelebrated performer at Penny Readings and Church Soirees, and had beentold by a lady who had heard Sims Reeves that she preferred hisrendering of "Tom Bowling" to that of the famous tenor. This anecdotewas proudly related by his wife, and though Mr Macalister cried,"Hoots!" and rustled his paper in protest, it was easy to see that hewas gratified by the remembrance.
Margot essayed one Scotch air after another, and was instructed in theproper pronunciation of the words; feigning, it is to be feared, anextra amount of incapacity to pronounce the soft "ch," for the sake ofgiving her patient a better opportunity of displaying his superioradroitness.
Comparatively speaking, Mr Macalister became quite genial and agreeablein the course of that musical hour, and when Margot finished herperformance 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'mnot saying that it might not have been worse. Ye can keep in tune, andthat's a mearcy!"
"Indeed, Alexander, I call it a bonnie voice! There's no call forsquallings and squakings in a bit of a room like this. I love to hear alassie's voice sound sweet and clear, and happy like herself, and that'sjust the truth about Miss Vane's singing. Thank ye, my dear. It's beena treat to hear you."
The broad, beaming smile, the sly little nod behind Mr Macalister'sback, proclaiming triumph and delighted gratitude--these sent Margot upto her room heartened and revived in spirits, for there is nothing onearth 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 breakingits way through the clouds overhead. She thrust her head out of thewindow, and opening her mouth, drank in great gulps of the fresh dampair, so sweet and reviving after the mouldy atmosphere of "the parlour."Over the mountain tops in the direction from which the wind was blowingthe clouds were slowly drifting aside, leaving broader and broaderpatches 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 theglen would be alight with sunshine. She would put on boots, cap, andcape, and hurry out to enjoy every moment that remained.
The strong-soled little boots were lifted from their corner behind thedoor, and down sat Margot on the floor, school-girl fashion, and beganto thread the laces in and out, and tie them securely into place. Thenthe deerstalker cap was pinned on top of the chestnut locks, and thestraps of the grey cape crossed over the white flannel blouse. Now shewas ready, and the sunshine was already calling to her from without,dancing across the floor, and bringing a delicious warmth into theatmosphere.
Margot threw open the door and was about to descend the narrowstaircase, when she stopped short, arrested by an unexpected sound.Some one was singing softly in a room near at hand, repeating therefrain of the ballad which she had taken last on her list. The deepbass 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! Hehad been indoors all the time, then, listening to her while she sang!Margot's cheeks grew hot with embarrassment, yet in the repeated strainthere was a suggestion of appreciation, of lingering enjoyment which didaway 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 ina picture in the lintel of the doorways, divided only by a few yards ofboarded passage. The strain came to an abrupt conclusion, frozen uponhis lips by the shock of surprise and embarrassment. For the third timein their short acquaintance Margot looked straight into his eyes; forthe third time recognised in their depths something that in mysteriousfashion seemed to respond to a want in her own nature; for the thirdtime saw the lids drop, heard an unintelligible murmur of apology, andwatched a hasty retreat.
For a moment Margot stood motionless, an expression of wounded prideclouding the young rounded face, then very slowly descended thestaircase, traversed the length of the "lobby," and stood outside thedoor, looking anxious
ly to right and left.
There he was, a strong, well-built figure in knickerbockers and Norfolkcoat striding rapidly up the hill path to the right,--trying, no doubt,to put as much distance as possible between himself and theobjectionable girl who seemed ever to be appearing when she was notwanted. For a long minute Margot stood gazing miserably ahead, thenturning resolutely to the left, came face to face with the Chieftainreturning from the village with his pockets bulging with papers.
His sudden appearance at this moment of depression had a peculiarsignificance to the girl's mind. Doubt crystallised into resolution;with a rapid beating of the heart she determined to grasp her courage inboth hands, and boldly make the plunge which she had been meditating forsome days past.
Big Game: A Story for Girls Page 14
