Part 11 (2/2)
”Where are the others'” Margaret said, experiencing the most pleasant sensation she had had in twenty-four hours.
”Ju and Harry went home, Rob's at George's, boys walking,” said Rebecca, briefly, still dimpling mysteriously with additional information. She gave Margaret an eloquent side glance as she led the way into the dining-room. At the doorway Margaret stopped, astounded.
The room was hardly recognizable now. It was cool and delightful, with the diminished table daintily set for five, The old silver candlesticks and silver teapot presided over blue bowls of berries, and the choicest of Mother's preserved fruits. Some one had found time to put fresh parsley about the Canton platter of cold meats, some one had made a special trip to Mrs. O'Brien's for the cream that filled the Wedgwood pitcher. Margaret felt tears press suddenly against her eyes.
”Oh, Beck!” she could only stammer, when the sisters went into the kitchen for hot water and tea biscuit.
”Mother did it,” said Rebecca, returning her hug with fervor. ”She gave us all an awful talking to, after you left! She said here was dear old Mark, who always worked herself to death for us, trying to make a nice impression, and to have things go smoothly, and we were all acting like Indians, and everything so confused at dinner, and hot and noisy! So, later, when Paul and I and the others were walking, we saw you and Doctor Tenison going up toward the graveyard, and I tore home and told Mother he'd missed the five and would be back; it was after five then, and we just flew!”
It was all like a pleasant awakening after a troubled dream. As Margaret took her place at the little feast, she felt an exquisite sensation of peace and content sink into her heart. Mother was so gracious and charming, behind the urn; Rebecca irresistible in her admiration of the famous professor. Her father was his sweetest self, delightfully reminiscent of his boyhood, and his visit to the White House in Lincoln's day, with ”my uncle, the judge.” But it was to her mother's face that Margaret's eyes returned most often, she wanted--she was vaguely conscious that she wanted--to get away from the voices and laughter, and think about Mother. How sweet she was, just sweet, and after all, how few people were that in this world! They were clever, and witty, and rich,--plenty of them, but how little sweetness there was! How few faces, like her mother's, did not show a line that was not all tenderness and goodness.
They laughed over their teacups like old friends; the professor and Rebecca shouting joyously together, Mr. Paget one broad twinkle, Mrs.
Paget radiantly reflecting, as she always did react, the others' mood.
It was a memorably happy hour.
And after tea they sat on the porch, and the stars came out, and presently the moon sent silver shafts through the dark foliage of the trees. Little Rob came home, and climbed silently, contentedly, into his father's lap.
”Sing something, Mark,” said Dad, then; and Margaret, sitting on the steps with her head against her mother's knee, found it very simple to begin in the darkness one of the old songs he loved:--
”Don't you cry, ma honey, Don't you weep no more.”
Rebecca, sitting on the rail, one slender arm flung above her head about the pillar, joined her own young voice to Margaret's sweet and steady one. The others hummed a little. John Tenison, sitting watching them, his locked hands hanging between his knees, saw in the moonlight a sudden glitter on the mother's cheek.
Presently Bruce, tired and happy and sunburned, came through the splashed silver-and-black of the street to sit by Margaret, and put his arm about her; and the younger boys, returning full of the day's great deeds, spread themselves comfortably over the lower steps.
Before long all their happy voices rose together, on ”Believe me,” and ”Working on the Railroad,” and ”Seeing Nellie Home,” and a dozen more of the old songs that young people have sung for half a century in the summer moonlight.
And then it was time to say good-night to Professor Tenison. ”Come again, sir!” said Mr. Paget, heartily; the boys slid their hands, still faintly suggestive of fish, cordially into his; Rebecca promised to mail him a certain discussed variety of fern the very next day; Bruce's voice sounded all hearty good-will as he hoped that he wouldn't miss Doctor Tenison's next visit. Mrs. Paget, her hand in his, raised keen, almost anxious eyes to his face.
”But surely you'll be down our way again?” said she, unsmilingly.
”Oh, surely.” The professor was unable to keep his eyes from moving toward Margaret, and the mother saw it.
”Good-bye for the present, then,” she said, still very gravely.
”Good-bye, Mrs. Paget,” said Doctor Tenison. ”It's been an inestimable privilege to meet you all. I haven't ever had a happier day.”
Margaret, used to the extravagant speeches of another world, thought this merely very charming politeness. But her heart sang, as they walked away together. He liked them--he had had a nice time!
”Now I know what makes you so different from other women,” said John Tenison, when he and Margaret were alone. ”It's having that wonderful mother! She--she--well, she's one woman in a million; I don't have to tell you that! It's something to thank G.o.d for, a mother like that; it's a privilege to know her. I've been watching her all day, and I've been wondering what she gets out of it,--that was what puzzled me; but now, just now, I've found out! This morning, thinking what her life is, I couldn't see what repaid her, do you see? What made up to her for the unending, unending effort, and sacrifice, the pouring out of love and sympathy and help--year after year after year....”
He hesitated, but Margaret did not speak.
”You know,” he went on musingly, ”in these days, when women just serenely ignore the question of children, or at most, as a special concession, bring up one or two,--just the one or two whose expenses can be comfortably met!--there's something magnificent in a woman like your mother, who begins eight destinies instead of one! She doesn't strain and chafe to express herself through the medium of poetry or music or the stage, but she puts her whole splendid philosophy into her nursery--launches sound little bodies and minds that have their first growth cleanly and purely about her knees. Responsibility,--that's what these other women say they are afraid of! But it seems to me there's no responsibility like that of decreeing that young lives simply shall not be. Why, what good is learning, or elegance of manner, or painfully acquired fineness of speech, and taste and point of view, if you are not going to distil it into the growing plants, the only real hope we have in the world! You know, Miss Paget,” his smile was very sweet, in the half darkness, ”there's a higher tribunal than the social tribunal of this world, after all; and it seems to me that a woman who stands there, as your mother will, with a forest of new lives about her, and a record like hers, will--will find she has a Friend at court!” he finished whimsically.
They were at a lonely corner, and a garden fence offering Margaret a convenient support, she laid her arms suddenly upon the rosevine that covered it, and her face upon her arms, and cried as if her heart was broken.
”Why, why--my dear girl!” the professor said, aghast. He laid his hand on the shaking shoulders, but Margaret shook it off.
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