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Turn Of The Tide, The

<h2>183CHAPTER XXV</h2> It was, indeed, “lucky stars,” as little Maggie soon found out. Others found it out, too; but to some of these it was not “lucky” stars. At the dinner table on that first night after the visit to Patty’s house, Margaret threw the family into no little consternation by abruptly asking: “How do you go to work to get men and things to put houses into livable shape?... I don’t suppose I did word it in a very businesslike manner,” she added laughingly, in response to Frank Spencer’s amazed ejaculation. “But what—perhaps I don’t quite understand,” he murmured. “No, of course you don’t,” replied Margaret; “and no wonder. I’ll explain. You see I’ve found another of my friends. It’s the little girl, Patty, with whom I lived three years in New York. She’s down in one of the mill cottages, and it leaks and is in bad shape generally. I want to fix it up.” 184 There was a dazed silence; then Frank Spencer recovered his wits and his voice. “By all means,” he rejoined hastily. “It shall be attended to at once. Just give me your directions and I will send the men around there right away.” “Thank you; then I’ll meet them there and tell them just what I want done.” Frank Spencer moistened his lips, which had grown unaccountably dry. “But, my dear Margaret,” he remonstrated, “surely it isn’t necessary that you yourself should be subjected to such annoyance. I can attend to all that is necessary.” “Oh, but I don’t mind a bit,” returned Margaret, brightly. “I want to do it. It’s for Patty, you know.” And Frank Spencer could only fall back in his chair with an uneasy glance at his sister. Before the week was out there seemed to be a good many things that were “for Patty, you know.” There was the skilled physician summoned to prescribe for Maggie; and there was the strong, capable woman hired to care for her, and to give the worn-out mother a much needed rest. There were the large baskets of fruit and 185 vegetables, and the boxes of beautiful flowers. In fact there seemed to be almost nothing throughout the whole week that was not “for Patty, you know.” Even Margaret’s time—that, too, was given to Patty. The golf links and the tennis court were deserted. Neither Ned nor the beautiful October weather could tempt Margaret to a single game. The music room, too, was silent, and the piano was closed. Down in the little house on the Prospect Hill road, however, a radiant young woman was superintending the work that was fast putting the cottage into a shape that was very much “livable.” Meanwhile this same radiant young woman was getting acquainted with her namesake. “Lucky Stars,” as the child insisted upon calling her, and Maggie were firm friends. Good food and proper care were fast bringing the little girl back to health; and there was nothing she so loved to do as to “play” with the beautiful young lady who had never yet failed to bring toy or game or flower for her delight. “And how old are you now?” Margaret would laughingly ask each day, just to hear the prompt response: 186 “I’m ‘most five goin’ on six an’ I’ll be twelve ter-morrow.” Margaret always chuckled over this retort and never tired of hearing it, until one day Patty sharply interfered. “Don’t—please don’t! I can’t bear it when you don’t half know what it means.” “When I don’t know what it means! Why, Patty!” exclaimed Margaret. “Yes. It’s Sam. He learned it to her.” “Well?” Margaret’s eyes were still puzzled. “He likes it. He wants her ter be twelve, ye know,” explained Patty with an effort. Then, as she saw her meaning was still not clear, she added miserably: “She can work then—in the mills.” “In the mills—at twelve years old!” “That’s the age, ye know, when they can git their papers—that is, if it’s summer—vacation time: an’ they looks out that ’tis summer, most generally, when they does gits ’em. After that it don’t count; they jest works, lots of ’em, summer or winter, school or no school.” “The age! Do you mean that they let mere children, twelve years old, work in those mills?” 187 For a moment Patty stared silently. Then she shook her head. “I reckon mebbe ye don’t know much about it,” she said wearily. “They don’t wait till they’s twelve. They jest says they’s twelve. Nellie Magoon’s eleven, an’ Bess is ten, an’ Susie McDermot ain’t but nine—but they’s all twelve on the mill books. Sam’s jest a-learnin’ Maggie ter say she’s twelve even now, an’ the minute she’s big enough ter work she will be twelve. It makes me jest sick; an’ that’s why I can’t bear ter hear her say it.” Margaret shuddered. Her face lost a little of its radiant glow, and her hand trembled as she raised it to her head. “You are right—I did not know,” she said faintly. “There must be something that can be done. There must be. I will see.” And she did see. That night she once more followed her guardian into the little den off the library. “It’s business again,” she began, smiling faintly; “and it’s the mills. May I speak to you a moment?” “Of course you may,” cried the man, trying to 188 make his voice so cordial that there should be visible in his manner no trace of his real dismay at her request. “What is it?” Margaret did not answer at once. Her head drooped forward a little. She had seated herself near the desk, and her left hand and arm rested along the edge of its smooth flat top. The man’s gaze drifted from her face to the arm, the slender wrist and the tapering fingers so clearly outlined in all their fairness against the dark mahogany, and so plainly all unfitted for strife or struggle. With a sudden movement he leaned forward and covered the slim fingers with his own warm-clasping hand. “Margaret, dear child, don’t!” he begged. “It breaks my heart to see you like this. You are carrying the whole world on those two frail shoulders of yours.” “No, no, it’s not the whole world at all,” protested the girl. “It’s only a wee small part of it—and such a defenseless little part, too. It’s the children down at the mills.” Unconsciously the man straightened himself. His clasp on the outstretched hand loosened until Margaret, as if in answer to the stern determination 189 of his face, drew her hand away and raised her head until her eyes met his unfalteringly. “It is useless, of course, to pretend not to understand,” he began stiffly. “I suppose that that altogether too officious young McGinnis has been asking your help for some of his pet schemes.” “On the contrary, Mr. McGinnis has not spoken to me of the mill workers,” corrected Margaret, quietly, but with a curious little thrill that resolved itself into a silent exultation that there was then at least one at the mills on whose aid she might count. “I have not seen him, indeed, since that first morning I met him,” she finished coldly. Though Margaret would not own it to herself, the fact that she had not seen the young man, Robert McGinnis, had surprised and disappointed her not a little—Margaret Kendall was not used to having her presence and her gracious invitations ignored. “Oh, then you haven’t seen him,” murmured her guardian; and there was a curious intonation of relief in his voice. “Who, then, has been talking to you?” “No one—in the way you mean. Patty inadvertently mentioned it to-day, and I questioned 190 her. I was shocked and distressed. Those little children—just think of it—twelve years old, and working in the mills!” The man made a troubled gesture. “But, my dear Margaret, I did not put them there. Their parents did it.” “But you could refuse to take them.” “Why should I?” he shrugged. “They would merely go into some other man’s mill.” “But you don’t know the worst of it,” moaned the girl. “They’ve lied to you. They aren’t even twelve, some of them. They’re babies of nine and ten!” She paused expectantly, but he did not speak. He only turned his head so that she could not see his eyes. “You did not know it, of course,” she went on feverishly. “But you do now. And surely now, now you can do something.” Still he was silent. Then he turned sharply. “Margaret, I beg of you to believe me when I say that you do not understand the matter at all. Those people are poor. They need the money. You would deprive some of the families of two-thirds of their means of support if you took away 191 what the children earn. Help them, pity them, be as charitable as you like. That is well and good; but, Margaret, don’t, for heaven’s sake, let your heart run away with your head when it comes to the business part of it!” “Business!—with babies nine years old!” The man sprang to his feet and walked twice the length of the room; then he turned about and faced the scornful eyes of the girl by the desk. “Margaret, don’t look at me as if you thought I was a fiend incarnate. I regret this sort of thing as much as you do. Indeed I do. But my hands are tied. I am simply a part of a great machine—a gigantic system, and I must run my mills as other men do. Surely you must see that. Just think it over, and give me the credit at least for knowing a little more of the business than you do, when I and my father before me, have been here as many years as you have days. Come, please don’t let us talk of this thing any more to-night. You are tired and overwrought, and I don’t think you realize yourself what you are asking.” “Very well, I will go,” sighed Margaret, rising 192 wearily to her feet. “But I can’t forget it. There must be some way out of it. There must be some way out of it—somehow—some time.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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