The Argosy — page 253: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

238 Wilful Margaret. It was a bright day early in October. .The-sun was shining with a cheerfulness that was very pleasant; though the weather was sufficiently chilly to make a fire agreeable to those whom age or illness prevented from indulging in open-air exercise. Colonel Massingham—fast pro- gressing In convalescence—was seated before the library fire ina roomy arm-chair, well stuffed with pillows and shawls. A low foot- stool was before his feet, and.a book was in his hand. It was lying, however, idly on his knee. He seemed to be lost in meditation. His face was still pale from the effects of his accident, and the wound on his brow was healed; its place being marked by a scar that he would carry to his grave. Perhaps he was recalling the last time that he had sat in that room, when Margaret had so ruthlessly shown to him his folly in trusting to one of her sex. He had seen her once or twice during his illness and been struck by the change in her demeanour—so different to her old imperious ways. He knew that George had left, but could only guess at the cause. While thus ruminating, the door opened, and, with a soft rustling sound of her long sweeping dress, the object of his thoughts entered the room. ‘‘I am so pleased to see you downstairs again,” she said as she advanced towards him. After a few more words of greeting, her tongue seemed to fail her. She began rearranging a bouquet of autumn flowers in the china-bowl that stood on a small ornamental pedestal near, and Colonel Massing- ham’s eyes rested, a tender love beaming in their sad depths, upon the fairest bud of them all. The slight air of embarrassment that dwelt upon her beautiful face made it more womanly than in the old days of her pride and petulance. Margaret had a task before her. She had nerved herself for its fulfilment, but now that the time had come her courage seemed to fail. ‘‘T have never yet thanked you for what you did on that dreadful day,” she began in a low, hurried voice, and shivering slightly. The Colonel tried to stop her words, but the most difficult part of her task was to come; and, now that she had made the plunge, she would not spare herself, humiliating though it might once have been to her proud spirit. ‘Will you forgive me, Colonel Massingham,” she continued, speaking in a low, ashamed voice, while her cheeks burnt with a vivid red, ‘‘for my—for my rudeness, my insolence to you that morning, when you tried to keep me from riding Wild Sorrel ?” ‘‘ Margaret,” he answered in soft, kindly tones, ‘‘come here, and let me tell you a dream that I had that day as I was lying at the gates of death. I do not remember being carried to the house. I was as one dead, when, suddenly, I felt the warm touch of lips pressed to my face. I believe that touch saved my life; as I half opened my eyes, I saw that an angel was ministering to me. With that kiss the mark was wiped from my cheek and the remembrance of it from my mind.” COPMIECLMOOOKS CO