“Harry!” gasped Mrs. Kendall. “‘Good’—a delicate girl!”
“No, no, of course not,” murmured the doctor, hastily, though his eyes still glowed. “It won’t do, of course; but you must remember her life, her struggle for very existence all those years. She had to train her fists to fight her way.”
“I—I suppose so,” admitted Mrs. Kendall, faintly; but she shivered again, as if with a sudden chill.
CHAPTER III
Scarcely had Houghtonsville recovered from its first shock of glad surprise at Margaret’s safe return, when it was shaken again to its very center by the news of Mrs. Kendall’s engagement to Dr. Spencer.
The old Kendall estate had been for more than a generation the “show place” of the town. Even during the years immediately following the loss of little Margaret, when the great stone lions on each side of the steps had kept guard over closed doors and shuttered windows, even then the place was pointed out to strangers for its beauty, as well as for the tragedy that had so recently made it a living tomb to its mistress. Sometimes, though not often, a glimpse might be caught of a slender, black-robed woman, and always there could be seen the one unshuttered window on the second floor. Every one knew the story of that window, and of the sunlit room beyond where lay the little woolly dog just as the baby hands had dropped it there years before; and every one knew that the black-robed woman, widow of Frank Kendall and mother of the lost little girl, was grieving her heart out in the great lonely house.
Not until the last two years of Margaret’s absence had there come a change, and then it was so gradual that the townspeople scarcely noticed it. Little by little, however, the air of gloom left the house. One by one the blinds were thrown open to the sunlight, and more and more frequently Mrs. Kendall was seen walking in the garden, or even upon the street. Not until the news of the engagement had come, however, did Houghtonsville people realize the doctor’s part in all this. Then they understood. It was he who had administered to her diseased body, and still more diseased mind; he who had roused her from her apathy of despair; and he who had taught her that the world was full of other griefs even as bitter as her own.
Not twenty-four hours after the news of the engagement became public property, old Nathan—town gossip, and driver-in-chief to a generation of physicians, Dr. Spencer included—observed triumphantly:
“And I ain’t a mite surprised, neither. It’s a good thing, too. They’re jest suited ter each other. Ain’t they been traipsin’ all over town tergether, an’ ridin’ whar ’twas too fur ter foot it?... Ter be sure, they allers went ter some one’s that was sick, an’ allers took jellies an’ things ter eat an’ read, but I had eyes, an’ I ain’t a fool. She done good, though—heaps of it; an’ ’tain’t no wonder the doctor fell head over heels in love with her.... An’ thar was the little gal, too. Didn’t he go twice ter New York a-huntin’ fur her, an’ wa’n’t it through him that they finally got her? ‘Course ’twas. ’Twas him that told Mis’ Kendall ‘bout that ’ere Mont-Lawn whar they sends them poor little city kids ter get a breath o’ fresh air; an’ ’twas him that sent on the twenty-one dollars for her, so’s she could name a bed fur little Margaret; an’ ’twas him that at last went ter New York an’ fetched her home. Gorry, ’twas allers him. Thar wa’n’t no way out of it, I say. They jest had ter get engaged!”
It was not long before the most of Houghtonsville—in sentiment, if not in words—came to old Nathan’s opinion: this prospective marriage was an ideal arrangement, after all, and not in the least surprising. There remained now only the pleasant task of making the wedding a joyful affair befitting the traditions of the town and of the honored name of Kendall.