Part 17 (1/2)

”Think of that, Margaret--eight thousand and--”

”For me--mine!” said the girl, rising as she spoke. ”Don't speak to me, Cousin Penn. I have had too much to-day. I am troubled. I must go.” No, she did not want to discuss it. She must go home. ”May I not go, Friend Schmidt? If this is a joke, uncle, it is not to my taste. I must go.”

”Certainly. The sleigh is at the door.”

Langstroth was angry. He had had no thanks, not a word. There was some embarra.s.sment, but the women must need felicitate the unwilling winner.

She made short answers.

”The puss has her claws out,” murmured Mrs. Byrd, as she heard in reply to her congratulations: ”I think it is a misfortune--a--a--what will my mother say? I must go.” She was a child again. Mrs. Penn, understanding the girl, went out with her, saying kind things, and helping her to put on her over-wrap.

”d.a.m.n the fool!” said her uncle, who had followed her into the hall, and to whom she would not speak.

The gentlemen were silent, not knowing how to sympathize with a misfortune so peculiar. Schmidt, tranquil and undisturbed, made the usual formal adieus and followed her out of the room. He tucked in the furs with kindly care, and through the early evening dusk they drove away across the snow, the girl silent, the man respectful of her mood.

X

It was after dark when Schmidt left Margaret at her home. As he was about to drive away to the stable, he said, ”Those are wild girls, but, my dear child, you were so very pretty, I for one almost forgave them.”

”Oh, was I?” she cried, shyly pleased and a little comforted. ”But the lottery prize; I shall hear about that, and so will my mother, too. I never gave it a thought when uncle spoke of it long ago.”

”It is a small matter, Pearl. We will talk about it later. Now go in and quit thinking of it. It is shrewd weather, and nipping.”

Margaret knew very well that she had good cause to be uneasy. Friends had been of late much exercised over the evil of lotteries, and half of Langstroth's satisfaction in this form of gambling was due to his love of opposition and his desire to annoy the society of which he still called himself a member. Although, to his anger, he had long ago been disowned, he still went to meeting once or twice a year. He had had no such sacrificial conscience in the war as made Clement Biddle and Wetherill ”apostates,” as Friends called them. He was by birthright a member of the society, and stood for King George, and would pay no war tax. But when the vendue-master took his old plate and chairs, he went privately and bought them back; and so, having thus paid for the joy of apparent opposition, drank to the king in private, and made himself merry over the men who st.u.r.dily accepting loss for conscience's sake, sat at meals on their kitchen chairs, silently unresistant, but, if human, a little sorrowful concerning the silver which came over with Penn and was their only material reminder of the Welsh homes their fathers had left that they might wors.h.i.+p G.o.d in their own simple way.

The one person Langstroth loved was his great-niece, of whose attachment to the German he was jealous with that keen jealousy known to those who are capable of but one single love. He had meant to annoy her mother; and, with no least idea that he would win a prize for her child, was now vexed at Margaret's want of grat.i.tude, and well pleased with the fuss there would be when the news got out and Friends came to hear of it.

When Pearl threw herself into the mother's arms and broke into tears, sobbing out the double story, for a moment Mrs. Swanwick was silent.

”My dear,” she said at last, ”why didst thou let them dress thee?”

”I--I could not help it, and--and--I liked it, mother. Thou didst like it once,” she added, with a look of piteous appeal. ”Don't scold me, mother. Thou must have liked it once.”

”I, dear? Yes, I liked it. But--scold thee? Do I ever scold thee? 'T is but a small matter. It will be the talk of a week, and Gainor Wynne will laugh, and soon it will be forgotten. The lottery is more serious.”

”But I did not do it.”

”No.”

”They will blame thee, mother, I know--when it was all my uncle's doing.

Let them talk to him.”

The widow smiled. ”Nothing would please him better; but--they have long since given up Josiah for a lost sheep--”

”Black, mother?” She was a trifle relieved at the thought of an interview between Friend Howell, the gentlest of the gentle, and Josiah.

”Brown, not black,” said the mother, smiling. ”It will someway get settled, my child. Now go early to bed and leave it to thy elders. I shall talk of it to Friend Schmidt.”

”Yes, mother.” Her confidence in the German gentleman, now for five years their guest, was boundless.