It was a wedding.
Margaret’s idea of marriage had undergone a decided change in the last few weeks. The envious delight of the girls over the fact that she was to be so intimately connected with a wedding, together with their absorbing interest in every detail, had been far more convincing than all of Mrs. Kendall’s anxious teachings: marriage might not be such a calamity, after all.
It had come as somewhat of a shock to Margaret—this envious delight of her companions. She had looked upon her mother’s marriage as something to be deplored; something to be tolerated, to be sure, since for some unaccountable reason her mother wanted it; but, still nevertheless an evil. There was the contract, to be sure, and the doctor had signed it without a murmur; but Margaret doubted the efficacy of even that at times—it would take something more than a contract, certainly, if the doctor should prove to be anything like Mike Whalen for a husband.
The doctor would not be like Mike Whalen, however—so the girls said. They had never seen any husbands that were like him, for that matter. They knew nothing whatever about husbands that shook and beat their wives and banged them around. All this they declared unhesitatingly, and with no little indignation in response to Margaret’s somewhat doubting questions. There were the story-books, too. The girls all had them, and each book was full of fair ladies and brave knights, and of beautiful princesses who married the king—and who wanted to marry him, too, and who would have felt very badly if they could not have married him!
In the face of so overwhelming an array of evidence, Margaret almost lost her fears—marriage might be very desirable, after all. And so it was a very happy little girl that left Elmhurst on the day before Christmas and, in care of one of the teachers, journeyed toward Houghtonsville, where were waiting the play room, the great stone lions, and the wonderful wedding, to say nothing of the dear loving mother herself.
It was not quite the same Margaret that had left Houghtonsville a few months before. Even those short weeks had not been without their influence.
Margaret, in accordance with Mrs. Kendall’s urgent request, had been the special charge of every teacher at Elmhurst; and every teacher knew the story of the little girl’s life, as well as just what they all had now to battle against. Everything that was good and beautiful was kept constantly before her eyes, and so far as was possible, everything that was the reverse of all this was kept from her sight, and from being discussed in her presence. She learned of wonderful countries across the sea, and of the people who lived in them. She studied about high mountains and great rivers, and she was shown pictures of kings and queens and palaces. Systematically and persistently she was led along a way that did not know the Alley, and that did not recognize that there was in the world any human creature who was poor, or sick, or hungry.
It is little wonder, then, that she came to question less and less the luxury all about her; that she wore the pretty dresses and dainty shoes, and ate the food provided, with a resignation that was strangely like content; and that she talked less and less of Patty, the twins, and the Alley.
CHAPTER XI
Christmas was a wonderful day at Five Oaks, certainly to Margaret. First there was the joy of skipping, bare-toed, across the room to where the long black stockings hung from the mantel. In the gray dawn of the early morning its bulging knobbiness looked delightfully mysterious; and never were presents half so entrancing as those drawn from its black depths by Margaret’s small eager fingers.