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!"