The Turn of the Tide
Copyright© 2024 by Eleanor H. Porter
Chapter 15
By the end of the month the family at Hilcrest wondered how they had ever lived before they saw the world and everything in it through the blue eyes of Margaret Kendall—the world and everything in it seemed so much more beautiful now!
Never were the long mornings in the garden or on the veranda so delightful to Mrs. Merideth as now with a bright, sympathetic girl to laugh, chat, or keep silent as the whim of the moment dictated; and never were the summer evenings so charming to Frank as now when one might lie back in one’s chair or hammock and listen to a dreamy nocturne or a rippling waltz-song, and realize that the musician was no bird of passage, but that she was one’s own beloved ward and was even now at home. As for Ned—never were the golf links in so fine a shape, nor the tennis court and croquet ground so alluring; and never had he known before how many really delightful trips there were within a day’s run for his motor-car.
And yet——
“Della, do you think Margaret is happy?” asked Frank one day, as he and his sister and Ned were watching the sunset from the west veranda. Margaret had gone into the house, pleading a headache as an excuse for leaving them.
Della was silent. It was Ned who answered, indignantly.
“Why, Frank, of course she’s happy!”
“I’m not so—sure,” hesitated Frank. Then Mrs. Merideth spoke.
“She’s happy, yes; but she’s—restless.”
Frank leaned forward.
“That’s it exactly,” he declared with conviction. “She’s restless—and what’s the matter? That’s what I want to know.”
“Nonsense! it’s just high spirits,” cut in Ned, with an impatient gesture. “Margaret’s perfectly happy. Doesn’t she laugh and sing and motor and play tennis all day?”
“Yes,” retorted his brother, “she does; but behind it all there’s a curious something that I can’t get at. It is as if she were—were trying to get away from something—something within herself.”
Mrs. Merideth nodded her head.
“I know,” she said. “I’ve seen it, too.”
“Ah, you have!” Frank turned to his sister with a troubled frown. “Well, what is it?”
“I don’t know.” Mrs. Merideth paused, her eyes on the distant sky-line. “I have thought—once or twice,” she resumed slowly, “that Margaret might be—in love.”
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