The Turn of the Tide - Eleanor H. Porter

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on the scene they were the center of an admiring crowd of children,”—Mrs. Kendall shivered visibly—“and Margaret was just delivering herself of a final blow that sent the great bully off blubbering.”

      “Good for her!”—it was an involuntary tribute, straight from the heart.

      “Harry!” gasped Mrs. Kendall. “‘Good’—a delicate girl!”

      “No, no, of course not,” murmured the doctor, hastily, though his eyes still glowed. “It won’t do, of course; but you must remember her life, her struggle for very existence all those years. She had to train her fists to fight her way.”

      “I—I suppose so,” admitted Mrs. Kendall, faintly; but she shivered again, as if with a sudden chill.

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      Scarcely had Houghtonsville recovered from its first shock of glad surprise at Margaret’s safe return, when it was shaken again to its very center by the news of Mrs. Kendall’s engagement to Dr. Spencer.

      The old Kendall estate had been for more than a generation the “show place” of the town. Even during the years immediately following the loss of little Margaret, when the great stone lions on each side of the steps had kept guard over closed doors and shuttered windows, even then the place was pointed out to strangers for its beauty, as well as for the tragedy that had so recently made it a living tomb to its mistress. Sometimes, though not often, a glimpse might be caught of a slender, black-robed woman, and always there could be seen the one unshuttered window on the second floor. Every one knew the story of that window, and of the sunlit room beyond where lay the little woolly dog just as the baby hands had dropped it there years before; and every one knew that the black-robed woman, widow of Frank Kendall and mother of the lost little girl, was grieving her heart out in the great lonely house.

      Not until the last two years of Margaret’s absence had there come a change, and then it was so gradual that the townspeople scarcely noticed it. Little by little, however, the air of gloom left the house. One by one the blinds were thrown open to the sunlight, and more and more frequently Mrs. Kendall was seen walking in the garden, or even upon the street. Not until the news of the engagement had come, however, did Houghtonsville people realize the doctor’s part in all this. Then they understood. It was he who had administered to her diseased body, and still more diseased mind; he who had roused her from her apathy of despair; and he who had taught her that the world was full of other griefs even as bitter as her own.

      Not twenty-four hours after the news of the engagement became public property, old Nathan—town gossip, and driver-in-chief to a generation of physicians, Dr. Spencer included—observed triumphantly:

      “And I ain’t a mite surprised, neither. It’s a good thing, too. They’re jest suited ter each other. Ain’t they been traipsin’ all over town tergether, an’ ridin’ whar ’twas too fur ter foot it?... Ter be sure, they allers went ter some one’s that was sick, an’ allers took jellies an’ things ter eat an’ read, but I had eyes, an’ I ain’t a fool. She done good, though—heaps of it; an’ ’tain’t no wonder the doctor fell head over heels in love with her.... An’ thar was the little gal, too. Didn’t he go twice ter New York a-huntin’ fur her, an’ wa’n’t it through him that they finally got her? ‘Course ’twas. ’Twas him that told Mis’ Kendall ‘bout that ’ere Mont-Lawn whar they sends them poor little city kids ter get a breath o’ fresh air; an’ ’twas him that sent on the twenty-one dollars for her, so’s she could name a bed fur little Margaret; an’ ’twas him that at last went ter New York an’ fetched her home. Gorry, ’twas allers him. Thar wa’n’t no way out of it, I say. They jest had ter get engaged!”

      It was not long before the most of Houghtonsville—in sentiment, if not in words—came to old Nathan’s opinion: this prospective marriage was an ideal arrangement, after all, and not in the least surprising. There remained now only the pleasant task of making the wedding a joyful affair befitting the traditions of the town and of the honored name of Kendall.

      In all Houghtonsville, perhaps, there was only one heart that did not beat in sympathy, and that one, strangely enough, belonged to Mrs. Kendall’s own daughter, Margaret.

      “You mean you are goin’ to marry him, and that he’ll be your husband for—for keeps?” Margaret demanded with some agitation, when her mother told her of the engagement.

      Mrs. Kendall smiled. The red mounted to her cheek.

      “Yes, dear,” she said.

      “And he’ll live here—with us?” Margaret’s voice was growing in horror.

      “Why, yes, dear,” murmured Mrs. Kendall; then, quizzically: “Why, sweetheart, what’s the matter? Don’t you like Dr. Spencer? It was only last week that you were begging me to ask some one here to live with us.”

      Margaret frowned anxiously.

      “But, mother, dear, that was poor folks,” she explained, her eyes troubled. “Dr. Spencer ain’t that kind, you know. You—you said he’d be a husband.”

      “Yes?”

      “And—and husbands—mother!” broke off the little girl, her voice sharp with anguished love and terror. “He sha’n’t come here to beat you and bang you ‘round—he just sha’n’t!”

      “Beat me!” gasped Mrs. Kendall. “Margaret, what in the world are you thinking of to say such a thing as that?”

      Margaret was almost crying now. The old hunted look had come back to her eyes, and her face looked suddenly pinched and old. She came close to her mother’s side and caught the soft folds of her mother’s dress in cold, shaking fingers.

      “But they do do it—all of ’em,” she warned frenziedly. “Tim Sullivan, an’ Mr. Whalen, an’ Patty’s father—they was all husbands, every one of ’em; and there wasn’t one of ’em but what beat their wives and banged ’em ‘round. You don’t know. You hain’t seen ’em, maybe; but they do do it, mother—they do do it!”

      For a moment Mrs. Kendall stared speechlessly into the young-old face before her; then she caught the little girl in her arms.

      “You poor little dear!” she choked. “You poor forlorn little bunch of misguided pessimism! Come, let me tell you how really good and kind and gentle the doctor is. Beat me, indeed! Oh, Margaret, Margaret!”

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      In spite of Mrs. Kendall’s earnest efforts Margaret was not easily convinced that marriage might be desirable, and that all husbands were not patterned after Tim Sullivan and Mike Whalen. Nor was this coming marriage the only thing that troubled Margaret. Life at the Alley was still too vividly before her eyes to allow her to understand any scheme of living that did not recognize the supremacy of the sharpest tongue and the heaviest fist; and this period of adjustment to the new order of things was not without its trials for herself as well as for her mother.

      The beauty, love, and watchful care that surrounded her filled her with ecstatic rapture; but the niceties of speech and manner daily demanded of her, terrified and dismayed her. Why “bully” and “bang-up” should be frowned upon when, after all, they but expressed her pleasure in something provided for her happiness, she could not understand; and why the handling of the absurdly large number of knives, forks, and spoons about her plate at dinner should be a matter of so great moment, she could not see. As for the big white square of folded cloth that her mother thought so necessary at every meal—its dainty purity filled Margaret with dismay lest she soil or wrinkle it; and for her part she would have much preferred to let it quite alone.

      There

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