A TEARFUL TIME
The New Year was about a week old, and so far, had nobly fulfilled all
hopes of happiness.
To be sure, Marjorie had been obliged to begin school again, but as she
had the companionship of Gladys Fulton, who dearly loved to go to school,
it helped her to bear the trial.
She had been to spend the afternoon with Gladys and was returning home at
five o'clock, as was the rule for winter days.
She turned in at her own gate-way, and had there been any one to see her,
it might have been noticed that her demeanor and expression were very
unlike the usual appearance of gay, laughing Marjorie Maynard.
In fact, she looked the picture of utter despair and dejection. Her head
hung down, her steps were slow, and yet she seemed filled with a riot of
indignation.
Her face was flushed and her eyes red, and though not exactly crying,
great shivering sobs now and then shook her whole body.
Once inside her own home grounds, she quickened her pace a little, and
almost ran up the verandah steps and in at the door.
She slammed it behind her, and though, I am sorry to say, this was not an
unusual proceeding for Midget, yet she was truly trying to break herself
of the habit.
But this time she gave the door a hard, angry slam, and flinging her
wraps anywhere, as she went along, she brushed hastily through the
various rooms in search of her mother.
But Mrs. Maynard and Kitty had gone out driving, and King wasn't at home,
either, so poor Marjorie, her eyes now blinded with surging tears,
stumbled on to her own room, and threw herself, sobbing, on her little
white bed.
She buried her face in the pillow and gave way to such tumultuous grief
that the brass bedstead fairly shook in sympathy.
"I can't bear it!" she murmured, half aloud; "I _can't_ bear it! It's a
wicked shame! I don't Want to live any more! Oh, I _wish_ Mother would
come home!"
For nearly half an hour Marjorie cried and cried. Now with big, bursting,
heart-rending sobs, and at quieter intervals, with floods of hot tears.
Her little handkerchief became a useless, wet ball, and she dried her
eyes, spasmodically, on various parts of the pillow-case.
At last, in one of her paroxysms of woe, she felt a little hand on her
cheek, and Rosy Posy's little voice said, sweetly:
"What 'e matter, Middy? Wosy Posy loves 'oo!"
This was a crumb of comfort, and Marjorie drew the baby's cool cheek
against her own hot one.
The child scrambled up on the bed, beside her sister, and petted her
gently, saying:
"Don't ky, Middy; 'top kyin'."
"Oh, Rosy Posy, I'm so miserable! where is Mother?"
"Muvver dawn yidin'. Wosy take care of 'oo. Want Nannie?"
"No, I don't want Nannie. You stay here, little sister, till Mother
comes."
"Ess. Wosy 'tay wiv Middy. Dear Middy."
The loving baby cuddled up to her sister, and smoothed back the tangled
curls with her soft little hand, until exhausted Marjorie, quite worn out
with her turbulent storm of tears, fell asleep.
And here Mrs. Maynard found them, as, coming in soon, she went in search
of her eldest daughter.
"Why, Baby," she said; "what's the matter? Is Marjorie sick?"
"No," said Rosamond, holding up a tiny finger. "She's aseep. She kied and
kied, Middy did, an' nen she went seepy-by, all herself."
"Cried!" exclaimed Mrs. Maynard, looking at Midget's swollen,
tear-stained face. "What was she crying about?"
"I donno," answered Rosy, "but she feeled awful bad 'bout somefin'."
"I should think she did! You run away to Nurse, darling; you were good
Baby to take care of Midget, but, now, run away and leave her to Mother."
Mrs. Maynard brought some cool water and bathed the flushed little face,
and then sprinkling some violet water on a handkerchief she laid it
lightly across Midget's brow. After a time the child woke, and found her
mother sitting beside her.
"Oh, Mother!" she cried; "oh, Mother!"
"What is it, dearie?" said Mrs. Maynard, putting her arms round Marjorie.
"Tell Mother, and we'll make it all right, somehow."
She was quite sure Miss Mischief had been up to some prank, which had
turned out disastrously. But it must have been a serious one, and perhaps
there were grave consequences to be met.
"Oh, Mother, it's the most dreadful thing!" Here Marjorie's sobs broke
out afresh, and she really couldn't speak coherently.
"Never mind," said Mrs. Maynard, gently, fearing the excitable child
would fly into hysterics. "Never mind it to-night. Tell me about it
to-morrow."
"N-no,--I w-want to tell you now,--only,--I c-can't talk. Oh, Mother,
what shall I d-do? G-Gladys--"
"Yes, dear; Gladys,--what did she do? Or perhaps you and Gladys--"
Mrs. Maynard now surmised that the two girls were in some mischievous
scrape, and she felt positive that Marjorie had been the instigator, as
indeed she usually was.
"Oh, Mother, darling," as something in Mrs. Maynard's tone made Marjorie
smile a little through her tears, "it isn't _mischief_! It's a thousand
times worse than that!"
Middy was quieter now, with the physical calm that always follows a storm
of tears.
"It's this; Gladys is going away! Forever! I mean, they're _all_ going to
move away,--out west, and I'll never see her again!"
Mrs. Maynard realized at once what this meant to Marjorie. The girls were
such good friends, and neither of them cared so much for any one else, as
for each other. The Fultons lived just across the street, and had always
lived there, through both the little girls' lives. It was almost like
losing her own brother or sister, for Marjorie and Gladys were as
lovingly intimate as two sisters could be.
Also, it seemed a case where no word of comfort or cheer could be spoken.
So Mrs. Maynard gently caressed her troubled child, and said:
"My poor, darling Midget; I'm _so_ sorry for you. Are you sure? Tell me
all about it."
"Yes, Mother," went on Marjorie, helped already by her mother's loving
sympathy; "they just told me this afternoon. I've been over there, you
know, and Gladys and Mrs. Fulton told me all about it. Mr. Fulton isn't
well, or something, and for his health, they're all going to California,
to live there. And they're going right away! The doctor says they must
hurry. And, oh, what _shall_ I do without Gladys? I love her so!"
"Dear little girl, this is your first trouble; and it has come to you
just in the beginning of this happy New Year. I can't tell you how sorry
I am for you, and how I long to help you bear it. But there's no way I
can help, except by sympathy and love."
"You _do_ help, Mother. I thought I'd _die_ before you came!"
"Yes, darling, I know my sympathy helps you, but I mean, I can't do
anything to lessen your sorrow at losing Gladys."
"No,--and oh, Mother, isn't it awful? Why, I've _always_ had Gladys."
"You'll have to play more with Kitty."
"Oh, of course I love Kit, to play with at home, and to be my sister. But
Glad is my chum, my intimate friend, and we always sit together in
school, and everything like that. Kitty's in another room, and besides,
she has Dorothy Adams for her friend. You know the difference between
friends and sisters, don't you, Mother?"
"Of course I do, Midget, dear. You and Kitty are two loving little
sisters, but I quite understand how you each love your friends of your
own age."
"And Kitty can keep Dorothy, but I must lose Gladys," and Marjorie's sobs
broke out anew.
"Why, Mopsy Midget Maynard! Why are we having April showers in January?"
Mr. Maynard's cheery voice sounded in Marjorie's doorway, and his wife
beckoned him to come in.
"See what you can do for our little girl," she said; "she is trying to
bear her first real trouble, and I'm sure, after these first awful hours
she's going to be brave about it."
"What is it, Mops?" said her father, taking the seat Mrs. Maynard
vacated. "Tell your old father-chum all about it. You know your troubles
are mine, too."
"Oh, Father," said Marjorie, brightening a little under the influence of
his strong, helpful voice; "Gladys Fulton is going away from Rockwell to
live; and I can't have her for my chum any more."
"Yes, I know; I saw Mr. Fulton and he told me. He's pretty ill,
Marjorie."
"Yes, I know it; and I'm awful sorry for him, and for them. But I'm sorry
for myself too; I don't want Gladys to go away."
"That's so; you will lose your chum, won't you? By jiminy! it _is_ hard
lines, little girl. How are you going to take it?"
Marjorie stopped crying, and stared at her father.
"How am I going to take it?" she said, in surprise.
"Yes; that's what I asked. Of course, it's a sorrow, and a deep one, and
you'll be very lonely without Gladys, and though your mother and I, and
all of us, will help you all we can, yet we can't help much. So, it's up
to you. Are you going to give way, and mope around, and make yourself
even more miserable than need be; or, are you going to be brave, and
honestly try to bear this trouble nobly and patiently?"
Marjorie looked straight into her father's eyes, and realized that he was
not scolding or lecturing her, he was looking at her with deep, loving
sympathy that promised real help.
"I will try to bear it bravely," she said, slowly; "but, Father, that
doesn't make it any easier to have Gladys go."
Mr. Maynard smiled at this very human sentiment, and said:
"No, Midget, dear, it doesn't, in one way; but in another way it does.
You mustn't think that I don't appreciate fully your sorrow at losing
Gladys. But troubles come into every life, and though this is your first,
I cannot hope it will be your last. So, if you are to have more of them,
you must begin to learn to bear them rightly, and so make them help your
character-growth and not hinder it."
"But, Father, you see Gladys helps my character a lot. She loves to go to
school, and I hate it. But if I go with her, and sit with her I don't
mind it so much. But without her,--oh how _can_ I go to school without
her?"
Again Marjorie wept as one who could not be comforted, and Mr. Maynard
realized it was truly a crisis in the little girl's life.
"Marjorie," he said, very tenderly, "it _is_ a hard blow, and I don't
wonder it is crushing you. Nor do I expect you to take a philosophical
view of it at present. But, my child, we'll look at it practically, at
least. Gladys _is_ going; nothing can change that fact. Now, for my sake,
as well as your own, I'm going to _ask_ you to be my own brave daughter,
and not disappoint me by showing a lack of cheerful courage to meet
misfortune."
"I don't want to be babyish, Father," said Midget, suddenly feeling
ashamed of herself.
"You're not babyish, dear; it's right and womanly to feel grief at losing
Gladys; but since it has to be, I want you to conquer that grief, and not
let it conquer you."
"I'll try," said Midge, wiping away some tears.
"You know, Marjorie, the old rhyme:
"'For every evil under the sun,
There is a remedy, or there's none;
If there is one, try to find it,
And if there is none, never mind it.'
"Now, I don't say 'never mind it' about this matter, but since there's no
remedy, do the best you can to rise above it, as you will have to do many
times in your future years."
"Father," said Marjorie, thoughtfully; "that sounds awful noble, but I
don't believe I quite understand. What can I _do_ to 'rise above it'?"
"Marjorie, you're a trump! I'd rather you'd be practical, than wise. And
there's no better weapon with which to fight trouble than practicality.
Now, I'll tell you what to do. And I don't mean today or tomorrow, for
just at first, you wouldn't be a human little girl if you _didn't_ nearly
cry your eyes out at the loss of your friend. But soon,--say about next
Tuesday,--if you could begin to smile a little, and though I know it will
be hard, smile a little wider and wider each day--"
"Till the top of my head comes off?" said Marjorie, smiling already.
"Yes; theoretically. But make up your mind that since Gladys must go,
you're not going to let the fact turn you into a sad, dolorous mope
instead of Mops."
"That's all very well at home, Father dear, but I'll miss her so at
school."
"Of course you will; but is there any remedy?"
"No, there isn't. I don't want any other seat-mate, and I don't want to
sit alone."
"Oh! Well, I can't see any way out of that, unless I go and sit with
you."
Marjorie had to laugh at this. "You couldn't squeeze in the space," she
said.
"Well, then you've proved there's _no_ remedy. So, never mind it! I mean
that, dearie. When you are lonely and just fairly _aching_ for Gladys,
put it bravely out of your mind."
"How can I?"
"Why, fill your mind with something else that will crowd it out. Say to
yourself, 'There's that sorrow poking his head up again, and I must push
him down.' Then go at something _hard_. Study your spelling, or go on a
picnic, _anything_ to crowd that persistent sorrow out."
"Can't I ever think of Gladys?"
"Oh, yes, indeed! but think gay, happy thoughts. If memories of your good
times make you sad, then cut them out, and wonder what sort of fun she's
having where she is. Write her nice, cheery letters. Letters are lots of
fun."
"Indeed they are," said Marjorie, brightening. "I'll love to get her
letters."
"Of course you will. And you can send each other postcards and little
gifts, and if you try you can have a lot of pleasure with Gladys in spite
of old sorrow."
"Daddy, you're such a dear! You've helped me a heap."
"That's what daddys are for, Midget mine. You're one of my four favorite
children, and don't you suppose I'd help you to the earth, if you wanted
it?"
"I 'spect you would. And, Father, you said I could cry till about
Tuesday, didn't you?"
"Why, yes; but make it a little shorter spell each day, and,--if
perfectly convenient, arrange to do it when I'm at home."
"Oh, Father, that's the time I won't cry! When you're here to talk to
me."
"You don't say so! Then I'll retire from business, close up my office,
and stay at home all day hereafter. Anything I can do to help a lady in
distress, must be done!"
They were both laughing now, and Midge had quite stopped crying, though
her heart was heavy underneath her smiles.
But the whole current of her thoughts had been changed by her talk with
her father, and as she made herself tidy, and went down to dinner, she
felt a responsibility on her to act as became the brave daughter of such
a dear father.
And, strange to say, the feeling was not entirely unpleasant.