a supply of water on hand, and so Stella carefully arranged the
berries and said she would carry the bucket herself and that
Marjorie and Alice could take turns in carrying the water. So,
after everything was adjusted, they set off toward the town,
following the dusty road by which they had come.
The way home did not seem as long as the morning's walk, and not
a great deal of time had passed when the spires of the village
churches appeared in the distance, then they reached the outlying
houses, and finally the main street. "I'd just kite up the back way
if I were you," said Stella to Marian; "it is a little bit shorter
and you won't be likely to meet so many people. Good-bye. We turn
off here, you know. I hope you won't get a scolding."
The fear of this, or worse, had been in Marian's heart all along,
though she had not mentioned it, and as she stole in the back gate
and up the garden walk she hoped she would meet neither her
grandmother nor Heppy. The little bucket of blackberries no longer
seemed worth while, and she set it down near the apple tree, ran in
the side door, past her grandfather's study, and on up-stairs,
hoping she could get by the sitting-room without being seen.
But her hopes were in vain, for on the landing appeared her
grandmother. "Is that you, Marian?" she asked. "Where have you been
all day? Come in here and give an account of yourself."
For a second it was in Marian's thought to say that her nose was
bleeding and to make her escape to her room, change her frock and
then reappear, but she knew it was only putting off the evil day,
for the frock's condition would be discovered sooner or later; and
then she was a truthful child, and could not have brought herself to
make a false excuse, even though the outcome might have been better
for her. So she entered the sitting-room timidly and stood with
drooping head before her grandmother.
"Where have you been all day?" repeated her grandmother.
"Oh, didn't Mrs. Hunt tell you?" said Marian in a weak voice. "She
said she would. I've been blackberrying."
"With whom?"
"Some of the girls."
"Who gave you permission?"
"Why--why--Mrs. Hunt didn't think you would mind, and--and----"
"Blackberrying! I should think so," exclaimed Mrs. Otway. "What a
sight you are, all stained and scratched up. Go, wash your face and
hands."
"I did try to get it off at the spring," returned Marian more
cheerfully, hoping she was to be let off rather easily after all.
But she had not reached the door before her grandmother called her
back. "What in the world have you done to your frock?" she asked,
examining her costume in surprise.
"It got torn so and I was so ragged that Stella tore off the skirt,"
said Marian in faint explanation, "and--" she went on, "she thought
she would try to make my petticoat look like a frock; the spots are
blackberry juice; they aren't quite the same color, but we all
thought they looked pretty well, better than slits and snags."
"Then you have ruined not only your frock but your petticoat. Go to
your room and do not come out till I tell you. I will speak to your
grandfather and we will see what is to be done about this," said her
grandmother in such a severe tone that Marian felt like the worst of
criminals and crept to her room in dread distress.
She had not often been seriously punished, but those few times stood
out very clearly just now. Once she had been compelled to receive
ten sharp strokes from a ruler on her outstretched hand. At another
time she had been shut up in a dark closet, and again she had been
tied in a chair for some hours. Any of these was bad enough. The
first was soonest over, but was the most humiliating, the second was
terrifying and nerve racking, while the third tediously long and
hard to bear. For some time the child sat tremblingly listening for
her grandmother's footsteps, but evidently Mrs. Otway did not intend
to use undue haste in the matter. After a while the whistle of the
evening train announced that those who had gone up to the city for
a day's shopping were now returning, and not long after Miss
Dorothy's door opened and Marian could hear the teacher singing
softly to herself in the next room.
A new humiliation filled the child's breast. They would tell Miss
Dorothy, and she would think of her little friend as some one
desperately wicked, too wicked, no doubt, to associate with Patty.
The tears stood in Marian's eyes at this possibility. It was very,
very wrong, of course, to go off without asking leave, and it was
worse to spoil her clothes. She well knew her grandmother's views
upon this subject, and that of all things she disapproved of
wastefulness. She would say that the clothes might have done good to
the poor; they might have been sent in a missionary box to some
needy child, and it was wicked and selfish to deprive the poor of
something that could be of use.
Oh, yes, Marian knew very well all about the probable lecture in
store for her.
She sat dolefully, with clasped hands and tearful eyes. But
presently a happier thought came to her. She would tell Miss
Dorothy before her grandmother had a chance to do so, and
perhaps Miss Dorothy would understand that she had not meant
to do wrong in the first place, and that what came after was
carelessness and not wilful wickedness. She had been ordered
not to leave her room, and this she need not do to carry out
her plan. So she softly crossed the floor and timidly knocked
at the door between Miss Dorothy's room and her own. It was
opened in a moment by her friend, who viewed the forlorn
little figure first with a smile, and then with anxious
interest. "Why, my dearie," she exclaimed, "what is the
matter? Come into my room and tell me what is wrong."
"I can't come in," said Marian in a low tone, "for I mustn't leave
my room till grandma bids me. But you can come in mine, can't you?"
she added wistfully.
"To be sure I can," and suiting the action to the word, Miss Dorothy
entered and sat down by the window, drawing Marian to her side and
saying, "Now tell me all about it."
Marian poured forth her doleful tale, beginning with the visit to
Mrs. Hunt and ending with the interview with her grandmother. "She
wouldn't have minded so much except for the frock and petticoat,"
she said in conclusion, "but when she found out about those, I could
see that she was very, very much put out."
"That was the worst part of it, of course," said Miss Dorothy. "Of
course you told her how sorry you were, and that you were so excited
over getting the biggest berries that you forgot about the briars.
You are not the only one who has done that," she added with a half
smile. "You never had been blackberrying before, had you?"
"No, Miss Dorothy, and it was very exciting. We really had a lovely
time, only the walk was rather a hot one. Mrs. Hunt was so good; she
gave me such a fine lunch. She didn't think grandma would mind, for
she said she often used to go blackberrying when she was a little
girl."
"She said that, did she?"
"Yes, Miss Dorothy. I ought to return the basket, but I can't go
now, and I left the berries down under the apple tree."
"I will go out and bring them in, and I was thinking of going to
Mrs. Hunt's to make a call. I may as well go this evening, and then
I can return the basket for you. Mr. Hunt is one of our trustees,
you know, and I want to see him on a little matter about the
school."
"Oh, thank you, Miss Dorothy. I know she uses that little basket
for all sorts of things, and she might want it."
"She shall have it," said Miss Dorothy. "Well, dear, I hope your
grandmother will not be very hard on you. The only point I can see
that needs blame, is your wearing that flimsy delicate frock, but
as you had never been blackberrying before, you couldn't know the
unkindness of briars."
"There wasn't time to change the frock."
"Yes, I know."
"And you won't think I am very, very, wicked, even if they punish
me? You will let Patty be friends with me?"
"I understand all about it, my dearie, and it shall not make the
slightest difference so far as Patty is concerned. I only wish I
could take your punishment for you."
At this extreme kindness, Marian flung herself upon the floor at
Miss Dorothy's feet and sobbed aloud, "You are so dear! you are so
dear!"
Miss Dorothy lifted her to her lap, smoothed back her hair and
kissed her flushed cheeks. "Cheer up, dear," she said. "One need
not be unhappy forever, and I hope this will soon be all over. Now,
I must go down and get those berries, or it will be too dark to find
them. Don't cry any more," and with a smile Miss Dorothy left her.
It was quite dark when Mrs. Otway at last appeared. "I have talked
it over with your grandfather," she began without preface, "and we
have decided to punish you by having you wear to school all next
week the costume you came home in. That is all we shall do. It will
teach you to be more careful next time. You may come down to supper
now," and Marian meekly followed.
The blackberries were on the table, but Marian could not touch them.
The horror of appearing before her schoolmates in the spotted
petticoat filled her with dismay, and although her grandmother felt
that she had been really very lenient, no punishment she could have
devised would have been more humiliating to the little girl. She had
always been a very dainty child, taking pride in her clothes and
being glad that she could appear as well as any one she knew. How
could she face nineteen pairs of wondering eyes upon Monday morning?
She could see the amused countenances, hear the suppressed giggles,
and imagine the laughing comments whispered with hands hiding
mouths. If only she could fall sick and die so she might never
go to school again.
No one paid much attention to her as she sat there barely tasting
her supper, though she should have been hungry after her long walk
and her early lunch. Miss Dorothy once or twice looked her way and
nodded reassuringly, while Heppy slipped an extra large piece of
cake on her plate as she was passing it around.
But after Marian had gone to bed and was lying forlornly awake,
after an hour of trying to sleep, Miss Dorothy tiptoed into her
room to bend over her, and seeing the wide eyes, to say: "I have
been down to Mrs. Hunt's. She is a dear. Go to sleep, honey. Just
have faith that it will all come out right. Don't worry. I am going
to leave my door open so you will not feel that you are all alone."
And with a kiss she left her to feel somehow quite satisfied that
matters were not so desperate as they seemed, and that Monday's
trial might in some way be set aside if she had faith.
_CHAPTER VI_
_The White Apron_
But Monday morning came and there seemed no prospect of any change
in Mrs. Otway's decision. She came herself to see that Marian was
clad in the costume of disgrace, and she was sternly sent out with
the order not to be late. But lest she should shame Miss Dorothy the
child lingered out of sight around the corner till her teacher
should have passed by and then she ventured down the street by
herself. No one imagined the agony each step cost her, nor how she
avoided any familiar face, crossing and recrossing as she saw an
acquaintance in the distance. She was even about to pass Mrs. Hunt's
gate without looking up when some one called her.
"Marian, Marian," came Mrs. Hunt's pleasant voice. "Stop a minute,
chickadee."
The first impulse was to run on, but that meant reaching the
schoolhouse so much the sooner, so the child hesitated and presently
was captured by Mrs. Hunt, who bore down upon her as one not to be
denied.
"I've been watching for you," she said. "Come right along in. You
have plenty of time. I have something to say to you. There, never
mind, I know the whole story and I ought to have all the blame, for
it was myself that urged you to go. Now your grandma never said you
were not to cover up that ridiculous petticoat, did she? She said
you were to wear it, I know, and wear it you must, of course.
"Now, look here, I have an apron that was my little angel Annie's;
it's a real pretty one, and it is made so it will cover you all up.
I hunted it out this morning early. Put your arms in the sleeves.
That's it. Just as I thought; it covers you well up and hides all
the spots, doesn't it? It is a little yellow from lying, but no
matter, it is clean and smooth. I've two or three more the same
pattern. I always liked 'em with those little frills on the
shoulders.
"Now, never mind, I know just what you're going to say, but you
needn't. I'm taking all the responsibility of this. Just you go
along to school and feel as happy as you can. I'm going to see your
grandmother before you get home, and I'll make it all right with
her, so you are not to bother yourself one little mite. Now trot
along, and hurry a little, or you might be a wee bit late. You can
wear the apron home. You look real nice in it."
Marian started forth as she was bidden, and then overwhelmed by her
sense of relief, she raced back to throw her arms around her good
friend's neck and say, "Oh, you are so good. I do love you, I do.
What should I do without you and Miss Dorothy?"
"Bless her heart," murmured Mrs. Hunt, giving her a hearty hug. She
stood in the doorway, looking after her till she was out of sight.
"I never expected to be so happy in seeing another child wear
anything of my Annie's," she murmured, wiping her eyes as she
entered the house.
The girls were trooping into the schoolroom from the playground
when Marian reached the spot, and Miss Dorothy was already at her
desk. She looked across and gave Marian a bright smile and an
understanding nod as she came in, as much as to say: "What did I
tell you? Hasn't it all come out right?" As hers was not the only
apron worn, Marian did not feel at all oddly dressed, and her relief
was so great that she smiled every time any one looked at her.
Alice sought her out at recess and asked eagerly: "Was your
grandmother awfully mad?"
"She didn't like it," returned Marian evasively.
"What did she do?"
"She didn't do anything. She sent me to my room."
"Was that all? Well, I'm glad you came off so easily," said Alice.
"We all know how particular your grandmother is, and we were afraid
she would do something awfully severe." Then Ruth came up and Marian
went off with her to eat luncheon, so no more was said on the
subject.
"Mrs. Hunt told me I could wear it home," said Marian to herself,
as she went up street from school. She was alone, for Miss Dorothy
had been detained and had told her not to wait. Marian paused at
Mrs. Hunt's gate to see if she were there to give her further
encouragement, for as she was nearing home, the child felt her
spirits oozing. What would her grandmother say? She remembered,
however, that Mrs. Hunt had charged her not to worry, so, finding
all silent and deserted at her friend's house, she plucked up
courage, believing that Mrs. Hunt had not failed her, and that she
was probably at that very moment, closeted with her grandmother.
She was not disappointed, for as she entered the sitting-room she
saw the two having a lively chat. "Here comes the child," cried Mrs.
Hunt cheerily. "We were just talking over old times, Marian. I was
reminding your grandmother of the time we all went nutting to
Jones's lot, and she fell into a mud-hole and was plastered to her
ears. She had to sit in the sun till she dried off, and then I took
her home. My mother rigged her up in some of my clothes, and she
went home with her heart in her mouth." Marian smiled. She
understood the method Mrs. Hunt was taking to smooth matters over
for herself.
"Another time," Mrs. Hunt turned to the other lady, "do you
remember, Maria, when we all went to Perryman's Beach and waded in
the water? You'd had a cold or something, and were afraid your
mother would find out you'd gone with us. She did find out, I
remember, because you didn't dry your feet well, and your bed was
full of sand the next morning. Dear me, dear me, that was a good
while ago, wasn't it?"
Mrs. Otway was smiling with a far-away look in her eyes. "I
remember," she said.
"You can't put old heads on young shoulders," went on Mrs. Hunt,
"and if our mothers had looked ahead and had seen what sober old
matrons we would become, I guess they wouldn't have worried as much
as they did over our little pranks."
Marian edged up to her good friend who put her arm around her. Mrs.
Otway turned her eyes upon her granddaughter. "Where did you get
that apron, Marian?" asked Mrs. Otway, a change coming over her
face.
"I lent it to her," Mrs. Hunt spoke up. "It was my Annie's and I
wasn't going to have Ralph Otway's daughter disgraced by going
through the streets in a petticoat; I'm too fond of him and of her,
too. I remember once how I made my Annie wear a purple frock she
despised. It was the very week before she died," Mrs. Hunt's voice
dropped, "and you can believe, Maria Otway, that if I had it to do
over again, the purple frock would have gone in the fire before she
should ever have worn it. Poor little darling, the girls made fun of
it because it was so ugly and old-womanish. I could have spared her
feelings and I didn't. I have that purple frock now," she went on.
"I kept it to remind me not to hurt the feelings of one of His
little ones when there was no need to." The tears were running down
Mrs. Hunt's cheeks by now, but she went on: "You can think as you
choose, but I have said my say."
"I don't think you would ever hurt any one's feelings if you could
help it, Salome," said Mrs. Otway, melted by the childless woman's
tears. Then turning to Marian, "Run along now, Marian," she said.
"Shall I take off the apron?"
"No, you needn't."
And that was all there was of it, but the next morning before
breakfast said Mrs. Otway outside Marian's door: "You may put on
your blue gingham for school, Marian."
So did Mrs. Hunt triumph and so did Miss Dorothy laugh in her sleeve
when she saw Marian appear in the clean blue frock. It was after
school when she and Marian were coming home together that she
confessed to having had something to do with bringing about this
pleasant state of things. "I went down to Mrs. Hunt's and told her
all about it," she said, "and we hatched up the scheme between us,
so our works and your faith brought about what we wished for. If you
had been really disobedient, and had intended to do wrong we could
not have been so eager to help you, but I think your punishment
exceeded the offense and Mrs. Hunt thought the same. Isn't she a
dear woman, Marian? I feel as if I had known her all my days, and as
if I could go right to her in time of trouble."
"That is the way every one feels," Marian told her. "I stopped there
this morning to take back the apron, and she said she knew Annie was
glad I had worn it. She talks that way about Annie, so I almost feel
as if I knew her and as if she knew me."
"Perhaps she does," returned Miss Dorothy quietly. "Now, when are
you going to send the letter to your father? Don't you think it is
most time you were getting it ready? And, by the way, I have not
shown you my camera. I left it in the city to be put in order and it
came this morning. Now, I was thinking it would be very nice to send
your father a little book of snap pictures of his small daughter. I
will take them, and can develop and print them myself. I have some
gray paper that we can cut into sheets to be folded the proper size
to mount the pictures upon, and it will make a very nice present,
don't you think so?"
"Oh, Miss Dorothy!" Marian's face showed her delight. "I think that
is the very loveliest idea that any one ever thought of. I think you
have an angelic mind for thinking of things."
Miss Dorothy laughed. "I am so glad you are pleased with the idea.
My plan is not to take the pictures all at once, but as I happen to
catch you in a characteristic position, or an artistic one. For
instance, one can be taken at school at your desk, or the
blackboard; another in the garden, another in the sitting-room with
your grandparents, another with Tippy and Dippy."
"More and more lovely," cried Marian. "Then he will feel almost as
if he were here seeing me every day, and will get acquainted with me
so much better in that way. I don't feel as if my father and I were
very well acquainted."
"You poor little pet, of course you don't, but once you begin
sending letters back and forth it will be quite different."
"Yes, I think so, too. Miss Dorothy, do you suppose my father will
ever come home?"
"I don't know why he shouldn't."
"I do; it is because grandpa will not ask him to. I think grandma
would like to, but grandpa won't let her; that is what I think, and
I believe Mrs. Hunt thinks so, too."
Miss Dorothy was silent for a moment, then she said: "Perhaps we'd
better not talk about it, dear, for I don't know the circumstances,
and I might not judge correctly, but if it is right that he should
come, I think your writing to him will be the surest way of bringing
it about the sooner. Shall we write the letter this afternoon?"
"Oh, please."
"Then come to my room in about an hour and we'll try it."
Marian was promptly on hand when the hour arrived, and seated
herself in a great twitter before the machine. She began bravely
enough: "My dear father," and then she paused, but slowly went on
till she had completed half a page of typewritten words. Miss
Dorothy did not offer any suggestions, but sat at the other side of
the room before her writing-table. At the pause in the clicking of
the typewriter she looked up. "Well," she said, "you haven't
finished yet, have you?"
"I don't know," responded Marian doubtfully. "Would you mind looking
at what I have done?"
Miss Dorothy came over and read the few stiff lines:
"My dear father: I have learned to write upon the typewriter which
belongs to my teacher. I hope you are well. I am well and so are the
rest of the family. We have very pleasant warm weather at present. I
hope you have the same in Berlin. I thought you might be pleased to
receive a letter from me, although it is not the first of the year.
I go to school now. There are twenty pupils in our room. They are
all little girls."
"Oh, dear, dear," exclaimed Miss Dorothy, "is that the way you feel
when you are writing? Why, you are talking to your father,
remember. Just listen to the way I write to mine." She read from the
sheet she held in her hand:
"Dear old daddy: Isn't this gorgeous weather? I wish you and I were
off for a real old time tramp this afternoon. How we would talk and
turn our hearts inside out to each other. I can see you with your
eyes twinkling under that disreputable old hat of yours, and I can
feel your polite hand under my independent elbow when there is a
stream to jump or a wall to climb, the dear hand that I never need
for that sort of help, but which you pretend I do because I am your
girl still, if I am big enough to face the world by myself.
"Well, daddy, I have been teaching for more than a week, and haven't
had one cry over it. Isn't that courage for you? Not that my pupils
are all angels, oh, no, this is not heaven, dear dad, but it is
really a very nice place, and there are some dear people here.
"Did you ever happen to meet a Mr. William Hunt and his wife? He is
a very good sort, and she is a perfect darling, one of those rare
flowers whose fragrance fills the air even on the highway; not one
of the hothouse kind that has been forced to bloom out of season,
for out of season and in season she is always blooming and shedding
forth her sweetness." Miss Dorothy paused.
"Oh, but Miss Dorothy, I could never write like that," exclaimed
Marian in an awe-stricken tone.
"Perhaps not just like that, but you can tell him about yourself and
about the people you know, Mrs. Hunt, for instance, and your
schoolmates, and Tippy and Dippy."
"And you?"
"Yes, and me, if you like."
"Oh, very well, I will try again. I didn't know we ought to write
letters like that."
"That is the very kind we should write. I will finish mine while you
do yours." So for the next few minutes the tapping of the typewriter
drowned the scratching of Miss Dorothy's pen, which flew steadily
over her paper.
At last Miss Dorothy looked up. "There," she exclaimed, "I have
finished mine. How are you getting on?"
"Oh, much better. I have written ever so much. I am almost at the
bottom of the page, and I think you will have to put another sheet
in for me, if you will be so good."
"I'll do it with pleasure. May I see what you have written, or would
you rather not?"
"Oh, please look. I have told him about school and about you and
some of the girls. There is a great deal more I could say, but I
will leave out Tippy and Dippy this time."