The Turn of the Tide Part 26

"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 G.o.d! what am I saying!" he broke off hoa.r.s.ely, 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 n.o.ble, 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "MARGARET CROSSED THE ROOM AND TOUCHED THE MAN'S SHOULDER."]

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

Ned Spencer returned alone to Hilcrest about the middle of April. In spite of their able corps of managers, the Spencers did not often leave the mills for so long a time without the occasional presence of one or the other of the firm, though Ned frequently declared that the mills were like a clock that winds itself, so admirably adjusted was the intricate machinery of their management.

It was not without some little embarra.s.sment and effort that Ned sought out the Mill House, immediately upon his return, and called on Margaret.

"I left Della and Frank to come more slowly," he said, after the greetings were over. "Frank, poor chap, isn't half strong yet, but he was impatient that some one should be here. For that matter, I found things in such fine shape that I told them I was going away again. We made more money when I wasn't 'round than when I was!"

Margaret smiled, but very faintly. She understood only too well that behind all this lay the reasons why her urgent requests and pleas regarding some of the children, had been so ignored in the office of Spencer & Spencer during the last few months. She almost said as much to Ned, but she changed her mind and questioned him about Frank's health and their trip, instead.

The call was not an unqualified success--at least it was not a success so far as Margaret was concerned. The young man was plainly displeased with the cane-seated chair in which he sat, and with his hostess's simple toilet. The reproachful look had gone from his eyes, it was true, but in its place was one of annoyed disapproval that was scarcely less unpleasant to encounter. There were long pauses in the conversation, which neither partic.i.p.ant seemed able to fill. Once Margaret tried to tell her visitor of her work, but he was so clearly unsympathetic that she cut it short and introduced another subject. Of McGinnis she did not speak; time enough for that when Frank Spencer should return and the engagement would have to be known. She did tell him, however, of her plans to go to New York later in search of the twins.

"I shall take Patty with me," she explained, "and we shall make it a sort of vacation. We both need the change and the--well, it won't be exactly a rest, perhaps."

"No, I fear not," Ned returned grimly. "I do hope, Margaret, that when Della gets home you'll take a real rest and change at Hilcrest. Surely by that time you'll be ready to cut loose from all this sort of thing!"

Margaret laughed merrily, though her eyes were wistful.

"We'll wait and see how rested New York makes me," she said.

"But, Margaret, you surely are going to come to Hilcrest then," appealed Ned, "whether you need rest or not!"

"We'll see, Ned, we'll see," was all she would say, but this time her voice had lost its merriment.

Ned, though he did not know it, and though Margaret was loth to acknowledge it even to herself, had touched upon a tender point. She did long for Hilcrest, its rest, its quiet, and the tender care that its people had always given her. She longed for even one day in which she would have no problems to solve, no misery to try to alleviate--one day in which she might be the old care-free Margaret. She reproached herself bitterly for all this, however, and accused herself of being false to her work and her dear people; but in the next breath she would deny the accusation and say that it was only because she was worn out and "dead tired."

"When the people do get home," she said to Bobby McGinnis one day, "when the people do get home, we'll take a rest, you and I. We'll go up to Hilcrest and just play for a day or two. It will do us good."

"To Hilcrest?--I?" cried the man.

"Certainly; why not?" returned Margaret quickly, a little disturbed at the surprise in her lover's voice. "Surely you don't think that the man I'm expecting to marry can stay away from Hilcrest; do you?"

"N-no, of course not," murmured McGinnis; but his eyes were troubled, and Margaret noticed that he did not speak again for some time.

It was this, perhaps, that set her own thoughts into a new channel.

When, after all, had she thought of them before together--Bobby and Hilcrest? It had always been Bobby and--the work.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV

It was on a particularly beautiful morning in June that Margaret and Patty started for New York--so beautiful that Margaret declared it to be a good omen.

"We'll find them--you'll see!" she cried.

Little Maggie had been left at the Mill House with the teachers, and for the first time for years Patty found herself care-free, and at liberty to enjoy herself to the full.

"I hain't had sech a grand time since I was a little girl an' went ter Mont-Lawn," she exulted, as the train bore them swiftly toward their destination. "Even when Sam an' me was married we didn't stop fur no play-day. We jest worked. An' say, did ye see how grand Sam was doin'

now?" she broke off jubilantly. "He wa'n't drunk once last week! Thar couldn't no one made him do it only you. Seems how I never could thank ye fur all you've done," she added wistfully.

"But you do thank me, Patty, every day of your life," contended Margaret, brightly. "You thank me by just helping me as you do at the Mill House."

"Pooh! As if that was anything compared ter what you does fur me,"

scoffed Patty. "'Sides, don't I git pay--money, fur bein' matron?"

In New York Margaret went immediately to a quiet, but conveniently located hotel, where the rooms she had engaged were waiting for them. To Patty even this unpretentious hostelry was palatial, as were the service and the dinner in the great dining-room that evening.

"I don't wonder folks likes ter be rich," she observed after a silent survey of the merry, well-dressed throng about her. "I s'pose mebbe Mis'

Magoon'd say this was worse than them autymobiles she hates ter see so; an' it don't look quite--fair; does it? I wonder now, do ye s'pose any one of 'em ever thought of--divvyin' up?"

A dreamy, far-away look came into the blue eyes opposite.

"Perhaps! who knows?" murmured Margaret. "Still, _they_ haven't ever--crossed the line, perhaps, so they don't--_know_."

"Huh?"