The winter passed and the spring came. The Mill House, even to the most
skeptical observer, showed signs of being a success. Even already a
visible influence had radiated from its shining windows and orderly
yard; and the neighboring houses, with their obvious attempt at
"slickin' up," reminded one of a small boy who has been told to wash his
face, for company was coming. The classes boasted a larger attendance,
and the stomachs and the babies of many a family in the town were
feeling the beneficial results of the lessons.
To Margaret, however, the whole thing seemed hopelessly small: there was
so much to do, so little done! She was still the little girl with the
teaspoon and the bowl of sand; and the chasm yawned as wide as ever. To
tell the truth, Margaret was tired, discouraged, and homesick. For
months her strength, time, nerves, and sympathies had been taxed to the
utmost; and now that there had come a breathing space, when the
intricate machinery of her scheme could run for a moment without her
hand at the throttle, she was left weak and nerveless. She was, in fact,
perilously near a breakdown.
Added to all this, she was lonely. More than she would own to herself
she missed her friends, her home life at Hilcrest, and the tender care
and sympathetic interest that had been lavished upon her for so many
years. Here she was the head, the strong tower of defense, the one to
whom everybody came with troubles, perplexities, and griefs. There was
no human being to whom she could turn for comfort. They all looked to
her. Even Bobby McGinnis, when she saw him at all--which was
seldom--treated her with a frigid deference that was inexpressibly
annoying to her.
From the Spencers she heard irregularly. Earlier in the winter the
letters had been more frequent: nervously anxious epistles of some
length from Mrs. Merideth; stilted notes, half protesting, half
pleading, from Ned; and short, but wonderfully sympathetic
communications from Frank. Later Frank had fallen very ill with a fever
of some sort, and Mrs. Merideth and Ned had written only hurried little
bulletins from the sick-room. Then had come the good news that Frank was
out of danger, though still far too weak to undertake the long journey
home. Their letters showed unmistakably their impatience at the delay,
and questioned her as to her health and welfare, but could set no date
for their return. Frank, in particular, was disturbed, they said. He had
not planned to leave either herself or the mills so long, it being his
intention when he went away merely to take a short trip with his sister
and brother, and then hurry back to America alone. As for Frank
himself--he had not written her since his illness.
Margaret was thinking of all this, and was feeling specially forlorn as
she sat alone in the little sitting-room at the Mill House one evening
in early April. She held a book before her, but she was not reading; and
she looked up at once when Patty entered the room.
"I'm sorry ter trouble ye," began Patty, hesitatingly, "but Bobby
McGinnis is here an' wanted me ter ask ye----"
Margaret raised an imperious hand.
"That's all right, Patty," she said so sharply that Patty opened wide
her eyes; "but suppose you just ask Bobby McGinnis to come here to me
and ask his question direct. I will see him now." And Patty, wondering
vaguely what had come to her gentle-eyed, gentle-voiced mistress--as she
insisted upon calling Margaret--fled precipitately.
Two minutes later Bobby McGinnis himself stood tall and straight just
inside the door.
"You sent for me?" he asked.
Margaret sprang to her feet. All the pent loneliness of the past weeks
and months burst forth in a stinging whip of retort.
"Yes, I sent for you." She paused, but the man did not speak, and in a
moment she went on hurriedly, feverishly. "I always send for you--if I
see you at all, and yet you know how hard I'm trying to help these
people, and that you are the only one here that can help me."
She paused again, and again the man was silent.
"Don't you know what I'm trying to do?" she asked.
"Yes." The lips closed firmly over the single word.
"Didn't I ask you to help me? Didn't I appoint us a committee of two to
do the work?" Her voice shook, and her chin trembled like that of a
grieved child.
"Yes." Again that strained, almost harsh monosyllable.
Margaret made an impatient gesture.
"Bobby McGinnis, why don't you help me?" she demanded, tearfully. "Why
do you stand aloof and send to me? Why don't you come to me frankly and
freely, and tell me the best way to deal with these people?"
There was no answer. The man had half turned his face so that only his
profile showed clean-cut and square-chinned against the close-shut door.
"Don't you know that I am alone here--that I have no friends but you and
Patty?" she went on tremulously. "Do you think it kind of you to let me
struggle along alone like this? Sometimes it seems almost as if you were
afraid----"
"I am afraid," cut in a voice shaken with emotion.
"Bobby!" breathed Margaret in surprised dismay, falling back before the
fire in the eyes that suddenly turned and flashed straight into hers.
"Why, Bobby!"
If the man heard, he did not heed. The bonds of his self-control had
snapped, and the torrent of words came with a force that told how great
had been the pressure. He had stepped forward as she fell back, and his
eyes still blazed into hers.
"I _am_ afraid--I'm afraid of myself," he cried. "I don't dare to trust
myself within sight of your dear eyes, or within touch of your dear
hands--though all the while I'm hungry for both. Perhaps I do let you
send for me, instead of coming of my own free will; but I'm never
without the thought of you, and the hope of catching somewhere a glimpse
of even your dress. Perhaps I do stand aloof; but many's the night I've
walked the street outside, watching the light at your window, and many's
the night I've not gone home until dawn lest some harm come to the woman
I loved so--good God! what am I saying!" he broke off hoarsely, dropping
his face into his hands, and sinking into the chair behind him.
Over by the table Margaret stood silent, motionless, her eyes on the
bowed figure of the man before her. Gradually her confused senses were
coming into something like order. Slowly her dazed thoughts were taking
shape.
It was her own fault. She had brought this thing upon herself. She
should have seen--have understood. And now she had caused all this sorrow
to this dear friend of her childhood--the little boy who had befriended
her when she was alone and hungry and lost.... But, after all, why
should he not love her? And why should she not--love him? He was good and
true and noble, and for years he had loved her--she remembered now their
childish compact, and she bitterly reproached herself for not thinking
of it before--it might have saved her this.... Still, did she want to
save herself this? Was it not, after all, the very best thing that could
have happened? Where, and how could she do more good in the world than
right here with this strong, loving heart to help her?... She loved him,
too--she was sure she did--though she had never realized it before.
Doubtless that was half the cause of her present restlessness and
unhappiness--she had loved him all the time, and did not know it! Surely
there was no one in the world who could so wisely help her in her dear
work. Of course she loved him!
Very softly Margaret crossed the room and touched the man's shoulder.
"Bobby, I did not understand--I did not know," she said gently. "You
won't have to stay away--any more."
"Won't have to--stay--away!" The man was on his feet, incredulous wonder
in his eyes.
"No. We--we will do it together--this work."
"But you don't mean--you can't mean----" McGinnis paused, his breath
suspended.
"But I do," she answered, the quick red flying to her cheeks. Then, half
laughing, half crying, she faltered: "And--and I shouldn't think you'd
make--_me_ ask--_you_!"
"Margaret!" choked the man, as he fell on his knees and caught the
girl's two hands to his lips.
[Illustration: "MARGARET CROSSED THE ROOM AND TOUCHED THE MAN'S
SHOULDER."]