THE MYSTERY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT
"Mary! Mary Hart! I want to speak to you. Are you alone?"
"Yes," said Mary, looking up from her mending. "I am just finishing
Teddy's stockings; he does tear them so. Come in, Sue."
"Hush! No; I want you to come out, Mary. It's something very
important. Don't say a word to any one, but come down to the arbor
this minute. I must see you alone. Oh, I am so excited!"
The arbor was at the farther end of the Harts' garden--a pleasant,
mossy place with seats, and a great vine climbing over it. Mary put
away her basket methodically, and joined Sue, whom she found
twittering with excitement.
"Oh, Mary, what do you think? But first you must promise not to tell a
living soul. Honest and true, black and blue! Promise, Mary, or my
lips are sealed forever!"
"I promise," said Mary, without thinking.
Sue's tremendous secrets were not generally very alarming.
Sue drew a long breath, looked around her, said "Hush!" two or three
times, and began:
"Isn't it perfectly splendid, Mary? The circus is coming to Chester on
the 24th, and Clarice and I are going. It is going to be the greatest
show in the world; the paper says so; and I've seen the pictures, and
they are simply glorious. Isn't it fine? Clarice has asked me to spend
the day with her at the hotel, and Mother says I may; and Clarice is
going to treat me. Mary, she is the most generous girl that ever lived
in this world. You don't half appreciate her, but she is."
"Who is going to take you to the circus?" asked practical Mary. "Mr.
Packard?"
"Hush! No. That is the exciting part of it. We are going alone, just
by ourselves."
"Sue! You cannot! Go up to Chester alone--just you two girls?"
"Why not? Clarice is much older than I, you know, Mary. Clarice is
fifteen, and she says it is perfectly absurd for us to be such babies
as we are. She says that in New York girls of our age wear dresses
almost full length, and put up their hair, and--and all kinds of
things. She says it's just because we live down East here that we are
so countrified. And she knows all about going to places, and she has
lots of money, and--and so--oh, Mary, isn't it exciting?"
"What does your mother say?" asked Mary, slowly. "Is she willing,
Sue?"
"I am not going to tell her!" said Sue.
Her tone was defiant, but she colored high, and did not look at Mary
as she spoke.
"You are not--going--to tell your mother?" repeated Mary, in dismay.
"Oh, Sue!"
"Now, hush, hush, Mary Hart, and listen to me! Clarice says what's the
use? She says it would only worry Mother, and I ought not to worry
her when she is so delicate. She says she thinks it is a great mistake
for girls to keep running to their mothers about everything when they
are as big as we are. She _never_ does, she says--well, it's her aunt,
but that makes no difference, she says; and she is fifteen, you know.
Besides, my mother is very different from yours; you know she is,
Mary. I suppose I _should_ want to tell things to your mother if she
was mine. But you know perfectly well how Mamma is; she never seems to
care, and it only bothers her and makes her head ache."
"Sue, how can you talk so? Your mother is ill so much of the time, of
course she can't--can't be like my Mammy, I suppose."
Mary faltered a little as she said this. She had often wished that
Mrs. Penrose would take more interest in Sue's daily life, but she
felt that this was very improper talk.
"I don't think you ought to talk so, Sue!" she said stoutly. "I am
sure you ought not. I think Clarice Packard has a very bad influence
over you, and I wish she had never come here."
"Clarice says you are jealous, Mary, and that you try to make trouble
between her and me. I don't believe that; but you have _no_
imagination, and you cannot appreciate Clarice. If you knew what she
has done for me--how she has opened my eyes."
Sue's vivid face deepened into tragedy. "Mary, I believe I will tell
you, after all. I didn't mean to,--Clarice warned me not to,--but I
will. Mary, there is a mystery in my life. Hush! don't speak--don't
say a word! I am a foundling!"
If Mary had been less amazed and distressed, she must have laughed
aloud. Sue, in her brown holland frock, her pretty hair curling round
her face, her eyes shining with excitement, was the very image of her
mother. As it was, Mary could only gasp, and gaze round-eyed.
"I am! I am sure of it!" Sue hurried on. "It explains everything,
Mary: Mamma's not caring more, and my feeling the way I do, and
everything. Clarice says she is sure it must be so. She knows a girl,
the most beautiful girl she ever saw, and she never knew it till she
grew up, because they were so fond of her; but she was left on their
door-step in a wicker basket lined with pink satin, and a note pinned
to her clothes saying that her parents were English noblemen, but they
never would acknowledge her because she wasn't a boy. And so! And you
know I have always felt that there was _something wrong_, Mary Hart,
and that I was not like other children; you know I have!"
"I know you have often talked very foolishly," said Mary, "but I never
heard you say anything wicked before. Sue, this is downright wicked,
and ridiculous and absurd besides. I never heard such nonsense in my
life, and I don't want to hear any more of it."
Both girls had risen to their feet, and stood facing each other. Mary
was flushed with distress and vexation; but Sue had turned very pale.
"Very well!" she said, after a pause. "I see Clarice is right. You
have a mean, jealous spirit, Mary. I thought I could tell the--the
great thing of my life, to my most intimate friend,--for you _have_
been my most intimate friend,--and you would understand; but you
don't. You never have understood me; Clarice has said so from the
beginning, and now I know she is right. At least, I have _one_ friend
who can feel for me. Good-by, Mary--forever!"
"Oh, Sue!" cried Mary, wanting to laugh and cry together. But Sue was
gone, dashing through the garden at tempest speed, and flinging the
gate to behind her with a crash.
Mary went into the house, and cried till she could not see. But there
were no tears for Sue. She ran up to her room, and locked the door.
Then, after looking carefully around, she drew out from under the bed
an old brown leather writing-desk, produced a key that hung by a
ribbon round her neck, unlocked the desk, and took out a faded red
morocco blank-book. It had once been an account-book, and had belonged
to her grandfather; the great thing about it was that it had a lock
and key! Opening it, Sue found a blank page, and flinging herself
over the table, began to write furiously:
"Mary and I have parted--parted forever. She was my dearest upon
earth, but I know her no more. Her name is Hart, but she has none, or
at least it is of marble. I am very unhappy, a poor foundling, with
but one friend in the world. I sit alone in my gloomy garet." (The sun
was pouring in at the window, but Sue did not see it.) "My tears blot
the page as I write." (She tried to squeeze out a tear, failed, and
hurried on.) "My affecktions are blited, but I am proud, and they
shall see that I don't care one bit how mean they are. I am of noble
blood, I feel it corsing in my viens, and I shouldn't wonder a bit if
I were a princess. And if I die young, Mary Hart can come and shed
tears on my moniment and be sorry she acted so."
Meantime, in the room below, little Lily was saying: "Mamma, I wish I
had some one to play with. Couldn't you get me another sister, about
my age? Sue says she is too old to play with me!" And Mrs. Penrose was
sighing, and wondering again why her elder child was not the
comfort to her that Mary Hart was to her mother.
[Illustration: "'MARY AND I HAVE PARTED--PARTED FOREVER.'"]
The days that followed were sad ones for Mary. The intimacy between
her and Sue had been so close that they had never felt the need of
other friends; and, indeed, in their small neighborhood it happened
that there were no pleasant girls of their own age. It had not seemed
possible that anything could ever come between her and Sue. They loved
to say that they were two halves, and only together made a whole. Now
it was bitter to see Sue pass by on the other side of the home street
with averted eyes and head held high. Mary tried to greet her as
usual; for had they not said a hundred times how silly it was for
girls to quarrel, and what spectacles they made of themselves behaving
like babies?
But it was of no use. The breach was complete; and Sue refused to
speak to Mary, or even to recognize her, and had only the most frigid
little nod for her brothers. Many a time did Mary curl up for comfort
in her mother's lap, and rest her head on her shoulder, and tell her
how it hurt, and ask what she should do, and how she should live
without her friend. She never failed to find comfort; and always,
after a good little talk, there was something that Mrs. Hart
particularly wanted done, and that Mary could help her so much with;
and Mary found that there is no balm like work for a sore heart.
One day Mrs. Hart said: "Mary, how would you like to ask little Lily
to come and spend the afternoon with you? Mrs. Penrose is really very
far from well, and Sue seems to be entirely absorbed. It would be a
kind thing to do, daughter."
So Lily came; and in making her happy Mary forgot the sore spot in her
own heart. From that day the two were a good deal together. Beside
Sue's glancing brightness Lily had seemed rather a dull child; or
perhaps it was merely that Mary had no thought to give her, and felt
with Sue that children were in the way when one wanted to talk
seriously. But in Mary's companionship the child expanded like a
flower. She was so happy, so easily pleased. It was delightful to see
her face light up at sight of Mary. And Mary determined that, come
what might, she and Lily would always be friends. "And, Lily," she
would whisper, "if--no! _when_ we get our Sue back again, won't she be
surprised to see how much you have learned, and how many of our plays
you know? And there will be three of us then, Lily."
And Lily would smile and dimple, and look almost a little like
Sue--almost!
The boys, too, were a great comfort in those days. Never had Tom been
so considerate, so thoughtful. Hardly a day passed but he would want
Mary to play or walk or fish with him. She had never, it seemed, seen
so much of Tom before, though he had always been the dearest boy in
the world--except Teddy.
"Oh!" she cried one day, when Tom, after an hour's patient search,
found the silver thimble that she had carelessly dropped in the
orchard--"oh, it _is_ good to have a brother Tom. I don't see what
girls do who have none."
"It's pretty nice to have a sister Mary," said Tom, shyly; he was
always shy when there was any question of feeling. "Do you know,
Ballast--do you know, I've never had so much sister Mary as I've been
having lately. Of course it's a great shame about Sue, and I miss her
no end, and all that--but it's nice to have such a lot of you, dear."
Sister and brother exchanged a silent hug that meant a good deal, and
Mary inwardly resolved that, come what might, Tom should always
hereafter have all the sister Mary he wanted.
"And it's simply no end for Lily," Tom added. "Lily has never had a
fair chance, you know, Mary."
"Lily is a very nice little girl," said Teddy, with kind
condescension. "There's a great deal more in Lily than people think.
Mary, if you are going over there, you might take her these
horse-chestnuts. She likes the milky ones, before they turn brown."
"Take them yourself, Master Teddy!" said Mary, laughing. "You know
it's what you want to do. Bring her over, and we'll go and play in the
orchard, all four of us. We'll play 'Wolf,' if you like."
"Oh, no!" cried Teddy. "Let's play 'Indian'; let's play 'The Last of
the Mo's.' We haven't played that for ever and ever so long."
"Lily doesn't know 'The Last of the Mohicans,'" said Mary. "She has
never read it. I'll read it to her, I think. We might begin the next
rainy day, boys, and all read together."
"Hooray!" said both boys.
"I can be making my new net," said Tom.
"And I can work on my boat," said Teddy.
"And I have about six dozen things to make for Christmas!" said Mary,
laughing. "Who is to do the reading, I should like to know?"
"Oh, Mammy will read it to us."
"All right! Hurrah for Mammy! Of course she will."
"But that is no reason why we should not play 'The Last of the Mo's'
now," resumed Tom. "We can tell Lily enough, as we go along, to show
her what it's like, and of course she wouldn't take an important part,
anyway--just a squaw or an odd brave. Cut along, Teddy, and bring the
kid over."
Lily came hurrying back with Teddy; and the four stood for a moment
together by the front door, laughing and chatting, and giving out the
parts for the game. They had never played it before without Sue. Mary
would rather not have played it now, but that seemed no reason why the
boys should not have their favorite game, and no doubt Tom could play
Uncas very well--though, of course, not _as_ well, even if he was a
boy.
Tom was just striking an attitude and brandishing an imaginary
tomahawk, when, on the opposite side of the street, Sue came along,
arm in arm, as usual, with Clarice Packard. The Hart children looked
in dismay. Was this their Sue? Something was wrong with her hair. It
was rolled up high over her forehead, and bobbed up into a short cue
behind. Something was wrong with her feet; at least, so it seemed from
the way she walked, mincing on her toes. And she had a spotted veil
on, and she carried a parasol. Was this their Quicksilver Sue? Could
it be?
As they passed, Clarice looked across the way and bowed a triumphant
little bow; then tittered rudely, and whispered something in her
companion's ear. Sue held her head high, and was walking past looking
straight before her, as she always did now, when suddenly it seemed as
if some feeling took hold upon her, stronger than her own will. She
turned her head involuntarily, and looked at the group standing on the
familiar door-step. A wave of color swept over her face; the tears
rushed into her eyes. For a moment she seemed to waver, almost to sway
toward them; then resolutely she turned her head away again, and
walked on.
"Mary," said Tom, "do you know what?"
"No, Tom. I don't know this particular 'what.' I know--what you saw
just now." And poor Mary looked as if the heart for play was clean
gone out of her.
"Well, I'll tell you. Our Sue has had just about enough of her new
treasure. I'll bet my new fishing-line that she would give all her
best boots to come and play 'Last of the Mo's' with us in the
orchard."