The Turn of the Tide Part 8

The doctor paused, and at that instant a step sounded on the graveled driveway. A moment later a boy's face flashed into the light that streamed through the open door.

"Why, Bobby, is that you?" cried Mrs. Kendall.

"Yes, ma'am, it's me, please. Did Mag--I mean Margaret come home, please?"

"Yes, she came to-night."

Bobby hesitated. He stood first on one foot, then on the other. At last, very slowly he dragged his right hand from behind his back.

"I been makin' it for her," he said, presenting a small, but very elaborate basket composed of peach-stones. "Mebbe if she ain't--er--_are_ not awake, you'll give it to her in the mornin'. Er--thank ye. Much obliged. Good-evenin', ma'am." And he turned and fled down the walk.

For a time there was silence on the veranda. Mrs. Kendall was turning the basket over and over in her hands. Suddenly she raised her head.

"You are right, Harry," she sighed. "Her mind must be taken off those four years of her life, and off everything connected with it; everything and--everybody."

"Yes," echoed the doctor; "everything and--everybody. Er--let me see his basket, please."

Four days later Mrs. Kendall and her daughter Margaret left Houghtonsville for a month's stay in the White Mountains. From the rear window of a certain law office in town a boy of fourteen disconsolately watched the long train that was rapidly bearing them out of sight.

"An' I hain't seen her but once since I give her the basket," he was muttering; "an' then I couldn't speak to her--her mother whisked her off so quick. Plague take that basket--wish't I'd never see it! An' I worked so hard over it, 'cause she said she liked 'em made out o' peach-stones!

She said she did."

CHAPTER X

It was the day before Christmas. For eight weeks Margaret had been at Elmhurst, Miss Dole's school in the Berks.h.i.+res. School--Miss Dole's school--had been something of a surprise to Margaret; and Margaret had been decidedly a surprise to the school. Margaret was not used to young misses who fared sumptuously every day, and who yet complained because a favorite ice cream or a pet kind of cake was not always forthcoming; and Miss Dole's pupils were not used to a little girl who questioned their right to be well-fed and well-clothed, and who supplemented this questioning with distressing stories of other little girls who had little to wear and less to eat day after day, and week after week.

Margaret had not gone to Elmhurst without a struggle on the part of her mother. To Mrs. Kendall it seemed cruel to be separated so soon from the little daughter who had but just been restored to her hungry arms after four long years of almost hopeless waiting. On the other hand, there were Margaret's own interests to be thought of. School, certainly, was a necessity, unless there should be a governess at home; and of this last Mrs. Kendall did not approve. She particularly wished Margaret to have the companions.h.i.+p of happy, well-bred girls of her own age. The Houghtonsville public school was hardly the place, in Mrs. Kendall's opinion, for a little maid with Margaret's somewhat peculiar ideas as to matters and things. There was Bobby, too--Bobby, the constant reminder in word and deed of the city streets and misery that Mrs. Kendall particularly wished forgotten. Yes, there certainly was Bobby to be thought of--and to be avoided. It was because of all this, therefore, that Margaret had been sent to Elmhurst. She had gone there straight from the great hotel in the mountains, where she and her mother had been spending a few weeks; so she had not seen Houghtonsville since September. It was the Christmas vacation now, and she was going back--back to the house with the stone lions and the big play room where had lain for so long the little woolly dog of her babyhood.

It was not of the stone lions, nor the play room that Margaret was thinking, however; it was of something much more important and more--delightful, the girls said. At all events, it was wonderfully exciting, and promised all sorts of charming possibilities in the way of music, pretty clothes, and good things to eat--again according to the girls.

It was a wedding.

Margaret's idea of marriage had undergone a decided change in the last few weeks. The envious delight of the girls over the fact that she was to be so intimately connected with a wedding, together with their absorbing interest in every detail, had been far more convincing than all of Mrs. Kendall's anxious teachings: marriage might not be such a calamity, after all.

It had come as somewhat of a shock to Margaret--this envious delight of her companions. She had looked upon her mother's marriage as something to be deplored; something to be tolerated, to be sure, since for some unaccountable reason her mother wanted it; but, still nevertheless an evil. There was the contract, to be sure, and the doctor had signed it without a murmur; but Margaret doubted the efficacy of even that at times--it would take something more than a contract, certainly, if the doctor should prove to be anything like Mike Whalen for a husband.

The doctor would not be like Mike Whalen, however--so the girls said.

They had never seen any husbands that were like him, for that matter.

They knew nothing whatever about husbands that shook and beat their wives and banged them around. All this they declared unhesitatingly, and with no little indignation in response to Margaret's somewhat doubting questions. There were the story-books, too. The girls all had them, and each book was full of fair ladies and brave knights, and of beautiful princesses who married the king--and who wanted to marry him, too, and who would have felt very badly if they could not have married him!

In the face of so overwhelming an array of evidence, Margaret almost lost her fears--marriage might be very desirable, after all. And so it was a very happy little girl that left Elmhurst on the day before Christmas and, in care of one of the teachers, journeyed toward Houghtonsville, where were waiting the play room, the great stone lions, and the wonderful wedding, to say nothing of the dear loving mother herself.

It was not quite the same Margaret that had left Houghtonsville a few months before. Even those short weeks had not been without their influence.

Margaret, in accordance with Mrs. Kendall's urgent request, had been the special charge of every teacher at Elmhurst; and every teacher knew the story of the little girl's life, as well as just what they all had now to battle against. Everything that was good and beautiful was kept constantly before her eyes, and so far as was possible, everything that was the reverse of all this was kept from her sight, and from being discussed in her presence. She learned of wonderful countries across the sea, and of the people who lived in them. She studied about high mountains and great rivers, and she was shown pictures of kings and queens and palaces. Systematically and persistently she was led along a way that did not know the Alley, and that did not recognize that there was in the world any human creature who was poor, or sick, or hungry.

It is little wonder, then, that she came to question less and less the luxury all about her; that she wore the pretty dresses and dainty shoes, and ate the food provided, with a resignation that was strangely like content; and that she talked less and less of Patty, the twins, and the Alley.

CHAPTER XI

Christmas was a wonderful day at Five Oaks, certainly to Margaret. First there was the joy of skipping, bare-toed, across the room to where the long black stockings hung from the mantel. In the gray dawn of the early morning its bulging k.n.o.bbiness looked delightfully mysterious; and never were presents half so entrancing as those drawn from its black depths by Margaret's small eager fingers.

Later in the morning came the sleigh-ride behind the doctor's span of bays, and then there was the delicious dinner followed by the games and the frolics and the quiet hour with mother. Still later the house began to fill with guests and then came the wedding, with Mrs. Kendall all in soft gray and looking radiantly happy on the doctor's arm.

It was a simple ceremony and soon over, and then came the long line of beaming friends and neighbors to wish the bride and groom joy and G.o.d-speed. Margaret, standing a little apart by the dining-room door, felt a sudden pull at her sleeve. She turned quickly and looked straight into Bobby McGinnis's eyes.

"Bobby, why, Bobby!" she welcomed joyously; but Bobby put his finger to his lips.

"Sh-h!" he cautioned; then, peremptorily, "Come." And he led the way through the deserted dining-room to a little room off the sidehall where the gloom made his presence almost indiscernible. "There!" he sighed in relief. "I fetched ye, didn't I?"

Margaret frowned.

"But, Bobby," she remonstrated, "why--what are you doing out here, all in the dark?"

"Seein' you."

"Seeing me! But I was in there, where 'twas all light and pretty, and you could see me lots better there!"

"Yes, but I wa'n't there," retorted Bobby, grimly; then he added: "'Twa'n't my party, ye see, an' I wa'n't invited. But I wanted ter see ye--an' I did, too."

Margaret was silent.

"Mebbe ye want ter go back now yerself," observed Bobby, gloomily, after a time. "'Tain't so pretty here, I'll own."

Margaret did want to go back, and she almost said so, but something in the boy's voice silenced the words on her lips.

"Oh, I'll stay, 'course," she murmured, s.h.i.+fting about uneasily on her little white-slippered feet.

Bobby roused himself.

"Here, take a chair," he proposed, pus.h.i.+ng toward her a low stool; "an'

I'll set here on the winder sill. Nice night; ain't it?"

"Yes, 'tis." Margaret sat down, carefully spreading her skirts.

There was a long silence. Through the half-open door came a shaft of light and the sound of distant voices. Bobby was biting his finger nails, and Margaret was wondering just how she could get back to the drawing-room without hurting the feelings of her unbidden guest. At last the boy spoke.

"Mebbe when we're grown up we'll get married, too," he blurted out, saying the one thing he had intended not to say. He bit his tongue angrily, but the next minute he almost fell off the window sill in his amazement--the little girl had sprung to her feet and clapped her hands.

"Bobby, could we?" she cried.