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Turn Of The Tide, The

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<h2>164CHAPTER XXII</h2> Margaret’s morning ride through the town did not have quite the effect she had hoped it would. By daylight the place looked even worse than by the softening twilight. But she was haunted now, not so much by the wan faces of the workers as by the jeering countenances of a mob of mischievous boys. To be sure, the unexpected meeting with Bobby McGinnis had in a measure blurred the vision, but it was still there; and at night she awoke sometimes with those horrid shouts in her ears. Of one thing it had cured her, however: she no longer wished to see for herself the shabby cottages and the people in them. She gave money, promptly and liberally—so liberally, in fact, that Mrs. Merideth quite caught her breath at the size of the bills that the young woman stuffed into her hands. “But, my dear, so much!” she had remonstrated. “No, no—take it, do!” Margaret had pleaded. “Give it to that society to do as they like with it. And when it’s gone there’ll be more.” 165 Mrs. Merideth had taken the money then without more ado. The one thing she wished particularly to avoid in the matter was controversy—for controversy meant interest. There had been one other result of that morning’s experience—a result which to Frank Spencer was perhaps quite as startling as had been the roll of bills to his sister. “I met your Mr. Robert McGinnis when I was out this morning,” Margaret had said that night at dinner. “What sort of man is he?” Before Frank could reply Ned had answered for him. “He’s a little tin god on wheels, Margaret, that can do no wrong. That’s what he is.” “Ned!” remonstrated Mrs. Merideth in a horror that was not all playful. Then to Margaret: “He is a very faithful fellow and an efficient workman, my dear, who is a great help to Frank. But how and where did you see him?” Margaret laughed. “I’ll tell you,” she promised in response to Mrs. Merideth’s question; “but I haven’t heard yet from the head of the house.” “I can add little to what has been said,” declared 166 Frank with a smile. “He is all that they pictured him. He is the king-pin, the keystone—anything you please. But, why?” “Nothing, only I know him. He is an old friend.” “You know him!—a friend!” The three voices were one in shocked amazement. “Yes, long ago in Houghtonsville,” smiled Margaret. “He knew me still longer ago than that, but that part I remember only as it has been told to me. He was the little boy who found me crying in the streets of New York, and took me home to his mother.” There was a stunned silence around the table. It was the first time the Spencers had ever heard Margaret speak voluntarily of her childhood, and it frightened them. It seemed to bring into the perfumed air of the dining-room the visible presence of poverty and misery. They feared, too, for Margaret: this was the one thing that must be guarded against—the possible return to the morbid fancies of her youth. And this man— “Why, how strange!” murmured Mrs. Merideth, breaking the pause. “But then, after all, he’ll not annoy you, I fancy.” 167 “Of course not,” cut in Ned. “McGinnis is no fool, and he knows his place.” “Most assuredly,” declared Frank, with a sudden tightening of his lips. “You’ll not see him again, I fancy. If he annoys you, let me know.” “Oh, but ‘twon’t be an annoyance,” smiled Margaret. “I asked him to come and see me.” “You—asked—him—to come!” To the Spencers it was as if she had taken one of the big black wheels from the mills and suggested its desirability for the drawing-room. “You asked him to come!” Was there a slight lifting of the delicately moulded chin opposite?—the least possible dilation of the sensitive nostrils? Perhaps. Yet Margaret’s voice when she answered, was clear and sweet. “Yes. I told him that Hilcrest would always welcome my friends, I was sure. And—wasn’t I right?” “Of course—certainly,” three almost inaudible voices had murmured. And that had been the end of it, except that the two brothers and the sister had talked it over in low distressed voices after Margaret had gone up-stairs to bed. 168 Two weeks had passed now, however, since that memorable night, and the veranda of Hilcrest had not yet echoed to the sound of young McGinnis’s feet. The Spencers breathed a little more freely in consequence. It might be possible, after all, thought they, that McGinnis had some sense!—and the emphasis was eloquent. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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