Early in the second week of September the houseful of guests at Hilcrest
went away, leaving the family once more alone.
"It seems good; doesn't it--just by ourselves," said Margaret that first
morning at breakfast. As she spoke three pairs of eyes flashed a message
of exultant thankfulness to each other, and three heads nodded an "I
told you so!" when Margaret's gaze was turned away. Later, Mrs. Merideth
put the sentiment into words, as she followed her brothers to the door.
"You see, I was right," she declared. "Margaret only needed livening up.
She's all right now, and will be contented here with us."
"Sure!" agreed Ned, as he stepped out on to the veranda. Frank paused a
moment.
"Has she ever been to you again, Della, with money, or--or anything?" he
asked in a low voice.
"No, never," replied Mrs. Merideth. "She asked once if I'd found the
child, Maggie, to give the money to, and I evaded a direct reply. I told
her I had put the money into the hands of the Guild, and that they were
in constant touch with all cases of need. I got her interested in
talking of something else, and she did not say anything more about it."
"Good! It's the best way. You know her history, and how morbid she got
when she was a child. It won't do to run any chances of that happening
again; and I fear 'twouldn't take much to bring it back. She was not a
little excited when she brought the money in to me that night. We must
watch out sharp," he finished as he passed through the door, and hurried
down the steps after his brother.
Back in the dining-room Margaret had wandered listlessly to the window.
It had been some weeks since she had seen a long day before her with no
plans to check off the time into hours and half-hours of expected
happenings. She told herself that it was a relief and that she liked
it--but her fingers tapped idly upon the window, and her eyes gazed
absent-mindedly at a cloud sailing across a deep blue sky.
After a time she turned to the door near by and stepped out upon the
veranda. She could hear voices from around the corner, and aimlessly she
wandered toward them. But before she had reached the turn the voices had
ceased; and a minute later she saw Frank and Ned step into the waiting
automobile and whir rapidly down the driveway.
Mrs. Merideth had disappeared into the house, and Margaret found herself
alone. Slowly she walked toward the railing and looked at the town far
below. The roofs showed red and brown and gray in the sunlight, and were
packed close together save at the outer edges, where they thinned into a
straggling fringe of small cottages and dilapidated shanties.
Margaret shivered with repulsion. How dreadful it must be to live like
that--no air, no sun, no view of the sky and of the cool green valley!
And there were so many of them--those poor creatures down there, with
their wasted forms and sunken eyes! She shuddered again as she thought
of how they had thronged the road on the day of the picnic at Silver
Lake--and then she turned and walked with resolute steps to the farther
side of the veranda where only the valley and the hills met her eyes.
It had been like this with Margaret every day since that memorable ride
home with Mr. Brandon. Always her steps, her eyes, and her thoughts had
turned toward the town; and always, with uncompromising determination,
they had been turned about again by sheer force of will until they
looked toward the valley with its impersonal green and silver. Until now
there had been gay companions and absorbing pastimes to make this
turning easy and effectual; now there was only the long unbroken day of
idleness in prospect, and the turning was neither so easy nor so
effectual. The huddled roofs and dilapidated shanties of the town looked
up at her even from the green of the valley; and the wasted forms and
hollow eyes of the mill workers blurred the sheen of the river.
"I'll go down there," she cried aloud with sudden impulsiveness. "I'll
go back through the way we came up; then perhaps I'll be cured." And she
hurried away to order the runabout to be brought to the door for her
use.
To Margaret it was all very clear. She needed but a sane, daylight ride
through those streets down there to drive away forever the morbid
fancies that had haunted her so long. She told herself that it was the
hour, the atmosphere, the half-light, that had painted the picture of
horror for her. Under the clear light of the sun those swarming
multitudes would be merely men, women, and children, not haunting ghosts
of misery. There was the child, Maggie, too. Perhaps she might be found,
and it would be delightful, indeed, to see for herself the comforting
results of the spending of that roll of money she had put into her
guardian's hands some time before.
Of all this Margaret thought, and it was therefore with not unpleasant
anticipations that she stepped into the runabout a little later, and
waved a good-bye to Mrs. Merideth, with a cheery: "I'm off for a little
spin, Aunt Della. I'll be back before luncheon."
Margaret was very sure that she knew the way, and some distance below
the house she made the turn that would lead to what was known as the
town road. The air was fresh and sweet, and the sun flickered through
the trees in dancing little flecks of light that set the girl's pulses
to throbbing in sympathy, and caused her to send the car bounding
forward as if it, too, had red blood in its veins. Far down the hill the
woods thinned rapidly, and a house or two appeared. Margaret went more
slowly now. Somewhere was the home of little Maggie, and she did not
want to miss it.
Houses and more houses appeared, and the trees were left behind. There
was now only the glaring sunlight showing up in all their barrenness the
shabby little cottages with their dooryards strewn with tin cans and
bits of paper, and swarming with half-clothed, crying babies.
From somewhere came running a saucy-faced, barefooted urchin, then
another and another, until the road seemed lined with them.
"Hi, thar, look at de buz-wagon wid de gal in it!" shrieked a gleeful
voice, and instantly the cry was taken up and echoed from across the
street with shrill catcalls and derisive laughter.
Margaret was frightened. She tooted her horn furiously, and tried to
forge ahead; but the children, reading aright the terror in her eyes,
swarmed about her until she was forced to bring the car almost to a stop
lest she run over the small squirming bodies.
With shrieks of delight the children instantly saw their advantage, and
lost no time in making the most of it. They leaped upon the low step and
clung to the sides and front of the car like leeches. Two larger boys
climbed to the back and hung there with swinging feet, their jeering
lips close to Miss Kendall's shrinking ears. A third boy, still more
venturesome, had almost reached the vacant seat at Miss Kendall's side,
when above the din of hoots and laughter, sounded an angry voice and a
sharp command.