Part 8 (1/2)

As Margaret pa.s.sed this cart, a tall boy of fourteen came out of the shop with a bang of the wire-netting door, and slid a basket into the back of the cart.

”Teddy!” said Margaret, irritation evident in her voice, in spite of herself.

”h.e.l.lo, Mark!” said her brother, delightedly. ”Say, great to see you!

Get in on the four-ten?”

”Ted,” said Margaret, kissing him, as the Pagets always quite simply kissed each other when they met, ”what are you driving Costello's cart for?”

”Like to,” said Theodore, simply. ”Mother doesn't care. Say, you look swell, Mark!”

”What makes you want to drive this horrid cart, Ted?” protested Margaret. ”What does Costello pay you?”

”Pay me?” scowled her brother, gathering up the reins. ”Oh, come out of it, Marg'ret! He doesn't pay me anything. Don't you make Mother stop me, either, will you?” he ended anxiously.

”Of course I won't!” Margaret said impatiently.

”Giddap, Ruth!” said Theodore; but departing, he pulled up to add cheerfully, ”Say, Dad didn't get his raise.”

”Did?” said Margaret, brightening.

”Didn't!” He grinned affectionately upon her as with a dislocating jerk the cart started a ricochetting career down the street, with that abandon known only to butchers' carts. Margaret, changing her heavy suit-case to the rested arm, was still vexedly watching it, when two girls, laughing in the open doorway of the express company's office across the street, caught sight of her. One of them, a little vision of pink hat and ruffles, and dark eyes and hair, came running to join her.

Rebecca was now sixteen, and of all the handsome Pagets the best to look upon. She was dressed according to her youthful lights; every separate article of her apparel to-day, from her rowdyish little hat to her openwork hose, represented a battle with Mrs. Paget's preconceived ideas as to propriety in dress, with the honors largely for Rebecca. Rebecca had grown up, in eight months, her sister thought, confusedly; she was no longer the adorable, un-self-conscious tomboy who fought and skated and toboganned with the boys.

”h.e.l.lo, darling dear!” said Rebecca. ”Too bad no one met you! We all thought you were coming on the six. Crazy about your suit! Here's Maudie Pratt. You know Maudie, don't you, Mark?”

Margaret knew Maudie. Rebecca's infatuation for plain, heavy-featured, complacent Miss Pratt was a standing mystery in the Paget family.

Margaret smiled, bowed.

”I think we stumbled upon a pretty little secret of yours to-day, Miss Margaret,” said Maudie, with her best company manner, as they walked along. Margaret raised her eyebrows. ”Rebel and I,” Maudie went on,--Rebecca was at the age that seeks a piquant subst.i.tute for an unpoetical family name,--”Rebel and I are wondering if we may ask you who Mr. John Tenison is?”

John Tenison! Margaret's heart stood still with a shock almost sickening, then beat furiously. What--how--who on earth had told them anything of John Tenison? Coloring high, she looked sharply at Rebecca.

”Cheer up, angel,” said Rebecca, ”he's not dead. He sent a telegram to-day, and Mother opened it--”

”Naturally,” said Margaret, concealing an agony of impatience, as Rebecca paused apologetically.

”He's with his aunt, at Dayton, up the road here,” continued Rebecca; ”and wants you to wire him if he may come down and spend tomorrow here.”

Margaret drew a relieved breath. There was time to turn around, at least.

”Who is he, sis?” asked Rebecca.

”Why, he's an awfully clever professor, honey,” Margaret answered serenely. ”We heard him lecture in Germany this spring, and met him afterwards. I liked him very much. He's tremendously interesting.” She tried to keep out of her voice the thrill that shook her at the mere thought of him. Confused pain and pleasure stirred her to the very heart.--He wanted to come to see her, he must have telephoned Mrs.

Carr-Boldt and asked to call, or he would not have known that she was at home this week end,--surely that was significant, surely that meant something! The thought was all pleasure, so great a joy and pride indeed that Margaret was conscious of wanting to lay it aside, to think of, dream of, ponder over, when she was alone. But, on the other hand, there was instantly the miserable conviction that he mustn't be allowed to come to Weston, no--no--she couldn't have him see her home and her people on a crowded hot summer Sunday, when the town looked its ugliest, and the children were home from school, and when the scramble to get to church and to safely accomplish the one o'clock dinner exhausted the women of the family. And how could she keep him from coming, what excuse could she give?

”Don't you want him to come--is he old and fussy?” asked Rebecca, interestedly.

”I'll see,” Margaret answered vaguely. ”No, he's only thirty-two or four.”

”And charming!” said Maudie archly. Margaret eyed her with a coolness worthy of Mrs. Carr-Boldt herself, and then turned rather pointedly to Rebecca.