Poor, Dear Margaret Kirby and Other Stories | Page 8

and they turned to walk down the road together, they smiled into each
other's eyes like two children.
"Were you surprised at the letter?" said John.
"Not so much surprised as glad," said Margaret, coloring like a girl.
They presently turned off the main road, and entered a certain gate.
Beyond the gate was an old, overgrown garden, and beyond that a
house--a broad, shabby house; and beyond that again an orchard, and
barns and outhouses.
John took a key from his pocket, and they opened the front door. Roses,
looking in the back door, across a bare, wide stretch of hall, smiled at
them. The sunlight fell everywhere in clear squares on the bare floors.
It brightened the big kitchen, and glinted in the pantry, still faintly
redolent of apples stored on shelves. It crept into the attic, and touched
the scored casement where years ago a dozen children had recorded
their heights and ages.
Margaret and John came out on the porch again, and she turned to him
with brimming eyes. It suddenly swept over her, with a thankfulness
too deep for realization, that this would be her world. She would sit on
this wide porch, waiting for him in the summer afternoons; she would
go about from room to room on the happy, commonplace journeys of
house-keeping; would keep the fire blazing against John's return. And
in the years to come perhaps there would be other voices about the old
house; there would be little shining heads to keep the sunlight always
there.
"Well, Margaret, do you like it?" said John, his arm about her, his face
radiant with pride and happiness.
"Like it I" said Margaret. "Why, it's home!"

IV
So the Kirbys disappeared from the world. Sometimes a newcomer at
Margaret's club would ask about the great portrait that hung over the
library fireplace--the portrait of a cold-eyed woman with beautiful
pearls about her beautiful throat. Then the history of poor, dear
Margaret Kirby would be reviewed--its triumphs, its glories, Margaret's

brilliant marriage, her beauty, her wit. These only led to the final tragic
scenes that had ended it all.
"And now she is grubbing away dear knows where!" her biographer
would say carelessly. "Absolutely, they might as well be buried!"
But about seven years after the Kirbys' disappearance, it happened that
four of Margaret's old intimates--the T. Illington Frarys and the Josiah
Dunnings--were taking a little motor trip in the Dunnings' big car,
through the northern part of the State. Just outside the little village of
Applebridge, something mysterious and annoying happened to the car,
which stopped short, and after some discussion it was decided that the
ladies should wait therein, while the men walked back in search of
help.
Mrs. Dunning and Mrs. Frary, settling themselves comfortably in the
tonneau for a long wait, puzzled themselves a little over the name of
Applebridge.
"I can just remember hearing of it," said Mrs. Dunning, sleepily, "but
when or where or how I don't know."
They opened their books. A brilliant May afternoon throbbed, hummed,
sparkled all about them. The big wheels of the motor were deep in
grass and blossoms. On either side of the road, fields were gay with
bees and butterflies. Larks looped the blackberry-vines with quick
flights; mustard-tops showed their pale gold under the apple- blossoms.
Here and there a white cloud drifted in the deep, clear blue of the sky.
There had been rains a day or two before, and in the fragrant air still
hung a little chill, a haunting suggestion of wet earth and refreshed
blossoms. Somewhere near, but out of sight, a flooded creek was
tumbling noisily over its shallows.
Suddenly the Sunday stillness was broken by voices. The two women
in the motor looked at each other, listening. They heard a woman's
voice, singing; then a small boyish voice, then a man's voice. The
speakers, whoever they were, apparently settled down in the meadow,
not more than a dozen yards away, for a breathing space. A tangle of
vines and bushes screened them from the motor-car.
"Mother, are me and Billy going to turn the freezer?" said a child's
voice, and a man asked:
"Tired, old lady?"
"No, not at all. It's been a delicious walk," said the woman. The two

sitting in the motor gasped. "Yes, yes, yes, lovey," the woman's voice
went on, "you and Bill may turn, if Mary doesn't mind. Be careful of
my fern, Jack!" And then, in German: "Aren't they lovely in all the
grass and flowers, John?"
"Margaret!" breathed Mrs. Frary. "Poor, dear Margaret Kirby!"
"I hope they don't go by this way," whispered Mrs. Dunning, after an
astounded second. "One's been so rude--don't you know--forgetting
her!"
"She probably won't know us," Mrs. Frary whispered back, adjusting
her veil in