Part 11 (1/2)

”I don't know whether we will, it's so hot,” Margaret said, in an indifferent tone, but she could easily have broken into disheartened tears.

”Oh, go,” Julie urged, ”it's much cooler out.” They were up in Margaret's old room, Mrs. Paget tying a big ap.r.o.n about Julie's ruffled frock, preparatory to an attack upon the demoralized kitchen.

”We think he's lovely,” the little matron went on approvingly. ”Don't fall in love with him, Mark.”

”Why not?” Margaret said carelessly, pinning on her hat.

”Well, I don't imagine he's a marrying man,” said the young authority, wisely. Margaret flushed, and was angry at herself for flus.h.i.+ng. But when Mrs. Paget had gone downstairs, Julie came very simply and charmingly over to her sister, and standing close beside her with embarra.s.sed eyes on her own hand,--very youthful in its plain ring,--as she played with the bureau furnis.h.i.+ng, she said:

”Mother tell you?”

Margaret looked down at the flushed face.

”Are you sorry, Ju?”

”Sorry!” The conscious eyes flashed into view. ”Sorry!” Julie echoed in astonishment. ”Why, Mark,” she said dreamily,--there was no affectation of maturity in her manner now, and it was all the more impressive for that. ”Why, Mark,” said she, ”it's--it's the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me! I think and think,”--her voice dropped very low,--”of holding it in my arms,--mine and Harry's, you know--and of its little face!”

Margaret, stirred, kissed the wet lashes.

”Ju, but you're so young--you're such a baby yourself!” she said.

”And, Mark,” Julie said, unheeding, ”you know what Harry and I are going to call her, if it's a girl? Not for Mother, for it's so confusing to have two Julias, but for you! Because,” her arms went about her sister, ”you've always been such a darling to me, Mark!”

Margaret went downstairs very thoughtfully, and out into the silent Sunday streets. Where they walked, or what they talked of, she did not know. She knew that her head ached, and that the village looked very commonplace, and that the day was very hot. She found it more painful than sweet to be strolling along beside the big, loose-jointed figure, and to send an occasional side glance to John Tenison's earnest face, which wore its pleasantest expression now. Ah, well, it would be all over at five o'clock, she said wearily to herself, and she could go home and lie down with her aching head in a darkened room, and try not to think what to-day might have been. Try not to think of the dainty little luncheon Annie would have given them at Mrs. Carr-Boldt's, of the luxurious choice of amus.e.m.e.nts afterward: motoring over the lovely country roads, rowing on the wide still water, watching the tennis courts, or simply resting in deep chairs on the sweep of velvet lawn above the river.

She came out of a reverie to find Doctor Tenison glancing calmly up from his watch.

”The train was five o'clock, was it?” he said. ”I've missed it!”

”Missed it!” Margaret echoed blankly. Then, as the horrible possibility dawned upon her, ”Oh, no!”

”Oh, yes,--as bad as that!” he said, laughing at her.

Poor Margaret, fighting despair, struggled to recover herself.

”Well, I thought it might have been important to you!” she said, laughing quite naturally. ”There's a seven-six, but it stops everywhere, and a ten-thirty. The ten-thirty is best, because supper's apt to be a little late.”

”The ten-thirty,” Doctor Tenison echoed contentedly. Margaret's heart sank,--five more hours of the struggle! ”But perhaps that's an imposition,” he said. ”Isn't there a tea-room--isn't there an inn here where we could have a bite?”

”We aren't in Berlin,” Margaret reminded him cheerfully. ”There's a hotel,--but Mother would never forgive me for leading any one there! No, we'll take that little walk I told you of, and Mother will give us something to eat later.--Perhaps if we're late enough,”

she added to herself, ”we can have just tea and bread and jam alone, after the others.”

Suddenly, unreasonably, she felt philosophical and gay. The little episode of missing the train had given her the old dear feeling of adventure and comrades.h.i.+p again. Things couldn't be any worse than they had been at noon, anyway. The experience had been thoroughly disenchanting. What did a few hours, more or less, matter! Let him be disgusted if he wanted to, she couldn't help it!

It was cooler now, the level late shadows were making even Weston pretty. They went up a steep shady lane to the old graveyard, and wandered, peacefully, contentedly, among the old graves. Margaret gathered her thin gown from contact with the tangled, uncut gra.s.s; they had to disturb a flock of nibbling sheep to cross to the crumbling wall. Leaning on the uneven stones that formed it, they looked down at the roofs of the village, half lost in tree-tops; and listened to the barking of dogs, and the shrill voices of children.

The sun sank lower, lower. There was a feeling of dew in the air as they went slowly home.

When, at seven o'clock, they opened the gate, they found on the side porch only Rebecca, enchanting in something pink and dotted, Mother, and Dad.

”Lucky we waited!” said Rebecca, rising, and signaling some wordless message to Margaret that required dimples, widened eyes, compressed lips, and an expression of utter secrecy. ”Supper's all ready,” she added casually.