Part 46

She was almost through the door when she turned once again and bade it a long farewell, the same as a maiden on her bridal morn. For she too was on her way to an altar; and the vows for sickness or health, for life or death, seemed to be upon her now.

She had got as far as the garden gate when she stopped suddenly.

"I have forgotten the letter," she said to herself. Laying her travelling-bag upon the ground, she ran swiftly back, but the door had locked behind her, and her latch-key was in her room.

"What shall I do? What shall I do?" she cried to herself. "I cannot get in without the letter, and they will soon be back."

She flew along the veranda to a window and pressed it upward. It yielded, and her joy flowed like a river. Up she flung it, far up, and with a bound the active form was upon the sill and disappeared into the room. The letter lay where she had left it, and in a moment the precious passport was in its hiding-place. A moment later, the gate swung shut behind her. Her bosom throbbed with a new courage as it felt the touch of the letter that was entrusted to its keeping; for this was her warrant, her pledge of passage on that long journey towards which she pressed so eagerly. Oh, woman! who countest pestilence thy friend when it is in league with love!

On she pressed, on through the frosty night. The snow made music beneath her hurrying feet, the bridge by which she crossed the river cracked and echoed with the frost, and the Northern lights flashed the signals of their heavenly masonry--for what knew they of plague and love and sorrow, and of the story of this poor tracing-board of time?

But Margaret never thought of this, for she, too, had her own secret symbols, and her heart its own mighty language, voiced, like the other's, in alternate floods of light and gloom.

She never paused till she was challenged by the guard before the plague-struck house. Then she laid down her travelling-bag, for it had grown heavy; but her eyes never turned from the dim light that shone from the window. Love and danger were there, and the fascination of both was upon her.

"Where might you be goin', miss?" said the guard. His voice was thick, and his breath bore a perfume which proved he had been hospitably entreated by some sympathetic friend. Doubtless it was the good Samaritan's wine that had failed of its destination.

"I am going into that house, if you please," replied Margaret. "I am going to take care of Mr. Strachan. The health officer has asked for a nurse."

"Oh, no, my lady," said the guard, "no pretty face like yours is going to be marked by the smallpox." His chivalry was of the moist kind, and his emotion made him hiccough several times.

Margaret winced: "I am entitled to go in," she said boldly, "and I will thank you to let me pass," with which she picked up her valise.

"Not by no means," the guard rejoined. "I've got orders not to let no one in without a letter from the officer."

"I have the letter," said Margaret, for in her excitement she had forgotten it. She produced it and handed it to the man. He walked over to a gas lamp across the street. Feeling the need of exercise, he proceeded thereto by several different routes. Having reached it, he was seized with a great fear lest the iron post should fall, and lent himself to its support. Then he read the letter over aloud; three or four times he read it, punctuating it throughout with the aforesaid tokens of emotion. He returned to where she stood, selecting several new paths with fine originality.

"I guess that's all right, an' you're the party," he remarked, "but it ain't signed."

"What do you mean?" said Margaret in alarm. "It certainly bears the health officer's name. I saw it myself."

"Oh, yes, that's all right, but that ain't enough--business is business, you see," he added, with maudlin solemnity. "You've got to sign it yourself, kind of receipt the bill, you see."

He fumbled in his pocket for a pencil, produced the rump thereof, spread the letter upon his knee, and began writing on the back of it. It was like an internal surgical operation, for his tongue protruded as he wrote, marking his progress by a series of serpentine writhings that suggested inward pain.

"There, that'll do," he said, when he emerged. "You sign that."

Margaret took the paper and tried to read what he had written. But, unfamiliar with hieroglyphics, his handiwork was lost upon her.

"I cannot read it," she said presently; "the light is very bad."

"That's so--besides it's too infernal cold to read--I'm awful cold. I wisht that cove in there'd get a move on him, an' get better. He's got a snap. Some one sent him a bottle of milk to-day, too," he concluded, with a solemn wink, the tongue again appearing on the scene to bear internal witness--"but I forgot--I'll read them words to you myself," which he proceeded to do, swaying gently, for the spirit of rhetoric was within him.

"This is it," he began, "'I'm the party what's meant to nurse the man what's got the smallpox, an' I got in because I wanted to'--that's all right, ain't it? Now you sign that, an' if you die, that'll protect me after you're dead. And I'll sign it too, and if I die, it'll protect you after I'm dead, see? And if we both die, it'll protect the officer after we're both dead, see? And if he dies, then we'll all be protected, because we'll all be dead, see? You keep the paper, and I'll keep the pencil, and we'll both keep our job, see? Gee whittaker! Ain't it cold! I wisht they'd send some more milk."

Impatient for a release, Margaret signed the document. After its author had made another picturesque pilgrimage to the gas lamp and back again, the signature was fervently commended, with signs of increasing emotion; he returned the letter to her--and she passed on into the house at which none but love or death would have asked for bed and board.

There are a thousand streams that flow from Calvary. But the deepest of these is joy. Wherefore as Margaret walked into the darkened house, her heart thrilled with a sudden rapture it had never known before. For he was there--and she would be beside him in a moment--and they would be together--and none could break in upon them, for grim death himself would guard the door. He was helpless too, dependent on weak arms that love would gird with might--and this makes a woman's happiness complete; when love and service wed, joy is their first-born child.

She was now standing at the door of his room, her eyes fixed upon the face of the man she loved, radiant with victory.

He had heard her footfall from the threshold, and his heart clutched each one as it fell. Yes, it was she, and the music of her rustling garments had the sweet sound of rain--for his was the thirsty heart. It was surely she, and not another,--and the whole meaning of life seemed clear to him. He knew not how or why, but he had been alone so long, and his hungry heart had wondered, and life seemed such a wounded thing.

But now he actually saw those silken strands, gently waving from her haste, and the parted lips that poured forth her soul's deep loyalty, and the dear form of ardent love--a maiden's form. All these came upon him like the dawn, and the citadel of life's frowning mystery was stormed at last. How voluptuous, after all, in its holiest sense, is God's purpose for the pure in heart!