She was
still pale and sad; somehow, I had expected to see her radiant after
her walk. The moment she saw me her eyes brightened, and she looked at
me keenly. “You have some good news for me?” she said. “Is Father better?”

“He is! Why did you think so?”

“I saw it in your face. I must go to him at once.”  She was hurrying
away when I stopped her. “He said he would send for you the moment he was dressed.”

“He said he would send for me!” she repeated in amazement. “Then he is
awake again, and conscious? I had no idea he was so well as that! O
Malcolm!”

She sat down on the nearest chair and began to cry. I felt overcome
myself. The sight of her joy and emotion, the mention of my own name
in such a way and at such a time, the rush of glorious possibilities
all coming together, quite unmanned me. She saw my emotion, and seemed
to understand. She put out her hand. I held it hard, and kissed it. Such moments as these, the opportunities of lovers, are gifts of the
gods! Up to this instant, though I knew I loved her, and though I
believed she returned my affection, I had had only hope. Now, however,
the self-surrender manifest in her willingness to let me squeeze her
hand, the ardour of her pressure in return, and the glorious flush of
love in her beautiful, deep, dark eyes as she lifted them to mine, were
all the eloquences which the most impatient or exacting lover could
expect or demand. No word was spoken; none was needed. Even had I not been pledged to
verbal silence, words would have been poor and dull to express what we
felt. Hand in hand, like two little children, we went up the staircase
and waited on the landing, till the summons from Mr. Trelawny should
come. I whispered in her ear—it was nicer than speaking aloud and at a
greater distance—how her father had awakened, and what he had said;
and all that had passed between us, except when she herself had been
the subject of conversation. Presently a bell rang from the room. Margaret slipped from me, and
looked back with warning finger on lip. She went over to her father’s
door and knocked softly. “Come in!” said the strong voice. “It is I, Father!”  The voice was tremulous with love and hope. There was a quick step inside the room; the door was hurriedly thrown
open, and in an instant Margaret, who had sprung forward, was clasped
in her father’s arms. There was little speech; only a few broken
phrases. “Father! Dear, dear Father!”

“My child! Margaret! My dear, dear child!”

“O Father, Father! At last! At last!”

Here the father and daughter went into the room together, and the door
closed. Chapter XIV

The Birth-Mark


During my waiting for the summons to Mr. Trelawny’s room, which I knew
would come, the time was long and lonely. After the first few moments
of emotional happiness at Margaret’s joy, I somehow felt apart and
alone; and for a little time the selfishness of a lover possessed me. But it was not for long. Margaret’s happiness was all to me; and in
the conscious sense of it I lost my baser self. Margaret’s last words
as the door closed on them gave the key to the whole situation, as it
had been and as it was. These two proud, strong people, though father
and daughter, had only come to know each other when the girl was grown
up. Margaret’s nature was of that kind which matures early. The pride and strength of each, and the reticence which was their
corollary, made a barrier at the beginning. Each had respected the
other’s reticence too much thereafter; and the misunderstanding grew to
habit. And so these two loving hearts, each of which yearned for
sympathy from the other, were kept apart. But now all was well, and in
my heart of hearts I rejoiced that at last Margaret was happy. Whilst
I was still musing on the subject, and dreaming dreams of a personal
nature, the door was opened, and Mr. Trelawny beckoned to me. “Come in, Mr. Ross!” he said cordially, but with a certain formality
which I dreaded. I entered the room, and he closed the door again. He
held out his hand, and I put mine in it. He did not let it go, but
still held it as he drew me over toward his daughter. Margaret looked
from me to him, and back again; and her eyes fell. When I was close to
her, Mr. Trelawny let go my hand, and, looking his daughter straight in
the face, said:

“If things are as I fancy, we shall not have any secrets between us. Malcolm Ross knows so much of my affairs already, that I take it he
must either let matters stop where they are and go away in silence, or
else he must know more. Margaret! are you willing to let Mr. Ross see
your wrist?”

She threw one swift look of appeal in his eyes; but even as she did so
she seemed to make up her mind. Without a word she raised her right
hand, so that the bracelet of spreading wings which covered the wrist
fell back, leaving the flesh bare. Then an icy chill shot through me. On her wrist was a thin red jagged line, from which seemed to hang red
stains like drops of blood! She stood there, a veritable figure of patient pride. Oh! but she looked proud! Through all her sweetness, all her dignity,
all her high-souled negation of self which I had known, and which never
seemed more marked than now—through all the fire that seemed to shine
from the dark depths of her eyes into my very soul, pride shone
conspicuously. The pride that has faith; the pride that is born of
conscious purity; the pride of a veritable queen of Old Time, when to
be royal was to be the first and greatest and bravest in all high
things. As we stood thus for some seconds, the deep, grave voice of her
father seemed to sound a challenge in my ears:

“What do you say now?”

My answer was not in words. I caught Margaret’s right hand in mine as
it fell, and, holding it tight, whilst with the other I pushed back the
golden cincture, stooped and kissed the wrist. As I looked up at her,
but never letting go her hand, there was a look of joy on her face such
as I dream of when I think of heaven. Then I faced her father. “You have my answer, sir!”  His strong face looked gravely sweet. He
only said one word as he laid his hand on our clasped ones, whilst he
bent over and kissed his daughter:

“Good!”

We were interrupted by a knock at the door. In answer to an impatient
“Come in!” from Mr. Trelawny, Mr. Corbeck entered. When he saw us
grouped he would have drawn back; but in an instant Mr. Trelawny had
sprung forth and dragged him forward. As he shook him by both hands,
he seemed a transformed man. All the enthusiasm of his youth, of which
Mr. Corbeck had told us, seemed to have come back to him in an instant. “So you have got the lamps!” he almost shouted. “My reasoning was
right after all. Come to the library, where we will be alone, and tell
me all about it!