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<h2>287CHAPTER XXXIX</h2> Robert McGinnis was not dead when he was tenderly lifted from his box-like prison, but he was still unconscious. In spite of their marvelous escape from death, both he and his employer were suffering from breaks and bruises that would call for the best of care and nursing for weeks to come; and it seemed best for all concerned that this care and nursing should be given at the Mill House. A removal to Hilcrest in their present condition would not be wise, the physicians said, and the little town hospital was already overflowing with patients. There was really no place but the Mill House, and to the Mill House they were carried. At the Mill House everything possible was done for their comfort. Two large airy rooms were given up to their use, and the entire household was devoted to their service. The children that had been brought there the night of the fire were gone, and there was no one with whom the two injured men must share the care and attention that were lavished upon them. Trained nurses 288 were promptly sent for, and installed in their positions. Aside from these soft-stepping, whitecapped women, Margaret and the little lame Arabella were the most frequently seen in the sickrooms. “We’re the ornamental part,” Margaret would say brightly. “We do the reading and the singing and the amusing.” Arabella was a born nurse, so both the patients said. There was something peculiarly soothing in the soft touch of her hands and in the low tones of her voice. She was happy in it, too. Her eyes almost lost their wistful look sometimes, so absorbed would she be in her self-appointed task. As for Margaret—Margaret was a born nurse, too, and both the patients said that; though one of the patients, it is true, complained sometimes that she did not give him half a chance to know it. Margaret certainly did not divide her time evenly. Any one could see that. No one, however—not even Frank Spencer himself—could really question the propriety of her devoting herself more exclusively to young McGinnis, the man she had promised to marry. Margaret was particularly bright and cheerful 289 these days; but to a close observer there was something a little forced about it. No one seemed to notice it, however, except McGinnis. He watched her sometimes with somber eyes; but even he said nothing—until the day before he was to leave the Mill House. Then he spoke. “Margaret,” he began gently, “there is something I want to say to you. I am going to be quite frank with you, and I want you to be so with me. Will you?” “Why, of—of course,” faltered Margaret, nervously, her eyes carefully avoiding his steady gaze. Then, hopefully: “But, Bobby, really I don’t think you should talk to-day; not—not about anything that—that needs that tone of voice. Let’s—let’s read something!” Bobby shook his head decidedly. “No. I’m quite strong enough to talk to-day. In fact, I’ve wanted to say this for some time, but I’ve waited until to-day so I could say it. Margaret, you—you don’t love me any longer.” “Oh—Bobby! Why, Bobby!” There was dismayed distress in Margaret’s voice. When one has for some weeks been trying to lash one’s self into a certain state of mind and heart for the 290 express sake of some other one, it is distressing to have that other one so abruptly and so positively show that one’s labor has been worse than useless. “You do not, Margaret—you know that you do not.” “Why, Bobby, what—what makes you say such a dreadful thing,” cried the girl, reaching blindly out for some support that would not fail. “As if—I didn’t know my own mind!” Bobby was silent. When he spoke again his voice shook a little. “I will tell you what makes me say it. For some time I’ve suspected it—that you did not love me; but after the fire I—I knew it.” “You knew it!” “Yes. When a girl loves a man, and that man has come back almost from the dead, she goes to him first—if she loves him. When Frank Spencer and I were brought into the hall down-stairs that Wednesday morning, the jar or something brought back my senses for a moment, just long enough for me to hear your cry of ‘Frank,’ and to see you hurry to his side.” Margaret caught her breath sharply. Her face grew white. 291 “But, Bobby, you—you were unconscious, I supposed,” she stammered faintly. “I didn’t think you could answer me if—if I did go to you.” “But you did not—come—to—see.” The words were spoken gently, tenderly, sorrowfully. Margaret gave a low cry and covered her face with her hands. A look that was almost relief came to the man’s face. “There,” he sighed. “Now you admit it. We can talk sensibly and reasonably. Margaret, why have you tried to keep it up all these weeks, when it was just killing you?” “I wanted to make—you—happy,” came miserably from behind the hands. “And did you think I could be made happy that way—by your wretchedness?” There was no answer. “I’ve seen it coming for a long time,” he went on gently, “and I did not blame you. I could never have made you happy, and I knew it almost from the first. I wasn’t happy, either—because I couldn’t make you so. Perhaps now I—I shall be happier; who knows?” he asked, with a wan little smile. Margaret sobbed. It was so like Bobby—to 292 belittle his own grief, just to make it easier for her! “You see, it was for only the work that you cared for me,” resumed the man after a minute. “You loved that, and you thought you loved me. But it was only the work all the time, dear. I understand that now. You see I watched you—and I watched him.” “Him!” Margaret’s hands were down, and she was looking at Bobby with startled eyes. “Yes. I used to think he loved you even then, but after the fire, and I heard your cry of ‘Frank’——” Margaret sprang to her feet. “Bobby, Bobby, you don’t know what you are saying,” she cried agitatedly. “Mr. Spencer does not love me, and he never loved me. Why, Bobby, he couldn’t! He even pleaded with me to marry another man.” “He pleaded with you!” Bobby’s eyes were puzzled. “Yes. Now, Bobby, surely you understand that he doesn’t love me. Surely you must see!” Bobby threw a quick look into the flushed, quivering face; then hastily turned his eyes away. 293 “Yes, I see,” he said almost savagely. And he did see—more than he wanted to. But he did not understand: how a man could have the love of Margaret Kendall and not want it, was beyond the wildest flights of his fancy. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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