"I've something to tell you and I don't want any one to bear. You will
scarcely believe it, Polly, and I'm sure I don't know what to do about
it."
"Oh, dear, what can it be?" said Polly. "Is it anything about Luella?
Is she going to leave?"
"Oh, dear, no. It is about some one much nearer than Luella."
They avoided being seen from the front of the house till they were well
away, and then they ran down to the rocks and settled themselves out of
sight below one of the great ledges.
"Now tell," said Polly, all curiosity.
"You must promise not to breathe a word."
"I promise on my sacred word and honor."
"Well then; it is about Mary."
"Mary! Oh, Molly!"
"Yes, what do you think? She wasn't at the Whartons' at all yesterday
afternoon."
Polly looked as astonished as Molly expected, though she said, after a
pause: "Well she never said she was."
"She let us think so. She didn't deny it."
"But did she go to Green Island? Now I think of it, all she said was
that she thought it was a pretty place. She knew that because she saw
it when she went over there to the party."
"Yes, I know that, but it wasn't at Green Island that she got the
strawberries, Polly, and she didn't go anywhere with the Whartons."
"How do you know?"
"I saw Grace at the post-office. I said to her: 'It was real nice of
you all to take Mary out in the launch yesterday,' and she looked so
surprised when she said: 'Why, we didn't take Mary. We didn't go out
at all yesterday, for Uncle Will had some of his friends up from town
and they were using the launch all day.'"
"What _did_ you say?"
"I didn't know what to say. 'Did Mary tell you she was with us?' Grace
asked, and I had to crawl out by saying: 'No, Luella thought so.' Then
Grace said--now what do you think of this, Polly--she said: 'Why, I saw
Mary going out with Ellis Dixon in his brother's boat. I watched them
rowing off. I am sure it was Mary. I couldn't be mistaken for no one
around here has a hat like hers.'"
Polly was silent with amazement and Molly went on: "I had to say, 'Oh,
very likely Aunt Ada knows all about it,' and then I came away as fast
as I could."
"Why Molly Shelton!" exclaimed Polly finding her voice, "do you suppose
she sneaked off that way with a strange little boy when she says her
mother is so particular that she doesn't even let her go on the street
alone? I can't believe it. I think Grace must have been mistaken."
"No, she wasn't. I know that."
"How do you know?"
"I saw Parker Dixon and he said, 'Did the little girl get home all
right? She was pretty safe with El, but I didn't know as your aunt
mightn't hev been oneasy, seeing they was just two children. You tell
her she needn't hev no fear of El; he can handle a boat as good as I
kin.'" Molly unconsciously imitated Parker's manner of speaking.
"Then it is true; of course it is," decided Polly. "Are you going to
tell Aunt Ada?"
"I don't know what to do. I feel as if I ought, and yet I feel sort of
sorry for Mary. She is 'way off from all her people and we've been
picking at her for being so particular and not doing this and not doing
that, so maybe she thought she was doing no more than we would have
done if we had been in her place."
"I know, and maybe we would have done the same, but she needn't have
been deceitful," returned Polly. "She could have asked if she might
go."
"She didn't have a chance, for we had gone sailing, you know."
"Then she ought to have told the first thing, as soon as she saw Aunt
Ada. No, she is a sneaky, horrid girl and I am not going to have
anything more to do with her, if she is my cousin. I was beginning to
like her, too." Polly spoke regretfully.
"So was I," agreed Molly. "But now the main thing is, shall we tell or
shall we not? I hate to be a tattle-tale."
"Then don't let's tell, but don't let's be more than polite to her and
she'll see that something is wrong and maybe she will tell of her own
accord. I wish she'd go. I don't like sneaky girls; I'd rather they'd
be out and out naughty."
"Why do you suppose she didn't tell?" said Molly thoughtfully. "She
might have known that Aunt Ada wouldn't punish her or even scold. She
would only have said: 'I'd rather you'd always tell me, Mary, before
you undertake such trips again.'" Again Molly imitated the person she
quoted. "It doesn't seem to me she could be scared of Aunt Ada when
she's always so gentle and kind."
"Well, I don't care whether she was scared or not, she wasn't honest,
and I think anyhow it was very queer for her to sneak off with a boy
she didn't know."
"But I know him; I used to play with him when I was only four years
old," said Molly. "He is a very nice boy. Aunt Ada says that he has
been very well raised and that any mother could be proud of him. He is
real bright, too: why, he can manage a sail boat as well as a man, and
he's always so ready and willing to do anything he can for any of us.
He is very different from some of the others who just can't bear the
summer people."
"Never mind about him; I suppose he is all right; it is Mary I am
bothered over."
"Well, the only thing we can do is to wait and see if she will tell of
her own accord; maybe she hasn't had a good chance yet to see Aunt Ada
alone; we are giving her the chance now, so we will wait and see what
happens."
This Polly agreed was best, but they returned to the house to turn a
cold shoulder to Mary, and to ignore her in every way they could
without being directly rude. So directly opposite was this course of
conduct from that of the morning, when her cousins had been all smiles
and sweetness, that Mary's fears again arose and she was so miserable
that at bedtime when Molly went in to her English cousin's room to get
a bottle of cold cream with which to anoint her sunburned face, she
heard a soft little sob from Mary's bed.
Immediately her sympathies were aroused. Mary was far from home and
mother. What if she had done wrong? She was alone among comparative
strangers and who knew the exact truth of yesterday's proceedings? She
crept softly to Mary's bedside. Her cousin's face was buried in the
pillow, and she was shaking with sobs. Molly leaned over her. "Are
you sick, Mary?" she whispered, "Do you want me to call Aunt Ada?"
"No," came feebly from Mary.
"Is anything the matter? Please tell me. I'll get into bed with you."
And suiting the action to the word she slipped in beside Mary, putting
a sympathetic arm around her. "What is it?" she repeated.
Only sobs from Mary.
"Please tell," persisted Molly.
"Oh, I can't, I can't," said Mary, her tears flowing fast.
"I won't tell a soul. I cross my heart I won't."
Mary checked her sobs a little as she gave heed to the earnest promise.
It was a relief to have Molly's comforting presence near by there in
the dark. But in a moment her tears gushed forth again. "I want my
mother, oh, I want my mother," she wailed.
"Are you so homesick? Is that it?" asked Molly with concern. "Never
mind, Mary, you'll see your father soon, and--and--I'm sorry," she
whispered, "I'm sorry we were horrid to you. Is that why you are
homesick, because Polly and I weren't nice to you?"
"Oh, n-no, it isn't that," replied Mary. "I deserved it, Molly, but
oh, you won't tell, you won't tell, will you?"
"Tell what?"
"Oh, Molly, I've lost Aunt Ada's diamond pin, and I can't find it.
I've looked and looked and Ellis Dixon helped me, too. I thought if it
had been found we would know by this time. That is why we went over to
Green Island."
"Then you did go with Ellis."
"Yes, he came along while I was looking for the brooch, after you had
all gone sailing, and he offered to take me to Green Island in his
brother's boat, and when we got there the postmaster put up a notice in
the post-office and we looked all over the hall everywhere, and all
along the road and asked every one we met, but it was no use, and now I
am afraid to tell Aunt Ada, and diamonds cost so much I could never buy
another like it." It was a relief to Mary to thus unburden herself.
"I don't seem to remember exactly about the pin," said Molly. "Aunt
Ada is always getting some pretty new thing, but I don't believe she
showed me any diamond pin; it must be quite new. I was so excited
about my own costume that night, I forget about any ornaments you wore.
Perhaps you could buy another one some time. I have some money, five
dollars, and I'll give it to you; I'll take it out of my bank when we
go home; that would help."
"Oh, Molly, how good you are!" Mary turned over to put her arm around
her cousin. "I have a pound, too, and that might be half enough, or
nearly half, but I am afraid it would be a long time before we could
get the rest."
"Well, I wouldn't be scared of Aunt Ada, Mary," Molly said. "She is a
dear, and she'll be very sorry, but she will know it was not your fault
that you lost it."
"Miss Sharp would say it was my carelessness, and she would be so very
vexed."
"Then she's a mean old thing, and not a bit like dear Aunt Ada. Do
tell her, Mary."
"Oh, I can't, I can't," persisted Mary, terror again seizing her, "I am
so afraid she will be vexed."
"Then let me tell."
"Oh, no, please. Wait a little longer. Perhaps the broach can be
found. Oh, I am so miserable; Aunt Ada will think I am so careless and
deceitful, and everything bad."
Molly now felt only a deep pity for the poor little sinner, and she
began to kiss away the tears on Mary's cheeks. "Please don't be
miserable," she begged. "I think maybe you ought to have told at
first, but I see how you felt, and I'll not be horrid to you any more,
Mary. I'll stand up for you straight along, and when you want Aunt Ada
to know I will go with you to tell her."
Mary really began to feel comforted. "I think you are a perfect duck,
Molly," she said. "Fancy after all I have been doing, for you to be so
kind. But please don't tell Polly; I know she doesn't like me."
"She did like you," said Molly truthfully, "until--until we heard that
you had not been where Aunt Ada thought you were."
"And she thinks I am deceitful; so I have been, and I hate myself for
it."
"But Polly doesn't know why you did it."
"Then don't tell her; I'd rather anything than that."
"Don't you want Polly to like you?"
"Yes, but I don't want her to know I lost the brooch."
It was useless to try to rid poor Mary's mind of the one idea, and at
last Molly gave up trying, but she did not leave her forlorn little
cousin, and Polly, in the next room while she wondered what could be
keeping Molly, fell asleep in the midst of her wondering.
_CHAPTER VII_
_In Elton Woods_
Polly was all curiosity the next morning. "Why in the world didn't you
sleep with me?" she asked, sitting up in bed as Molly came in from the
next room.
"Because Mary needed me. She was in awful trouble," replied Molly
soberly.
"What was it?" asked Polly eagerly.
"I can't tell you."
"I think that's real mean," returned Polly indignantly. "You're just a
turncoat, Molly Shelton; first you're friends with me, and then you're
thick as can be with Mary."
"I'm not a turncoat," retorted Molly, angry at being called names.
"She's as much my cousin as you are, and I reckon if you were way off
from your mother and had a dreadful thing happen that you couldn't talk
to her about, you'd want some one to be a little sorry for you."
"I think a dreadful thing is happening to me when you talk that way to
me," said Polly, melting into tears. "I just wish I had never come
here, I do so, and I reckon I want my mother as much as Mary does hers.
I am going to tell Uncle Dick how you act, so I am."
"Oh, please don't tell him!" exclaimed Molly, alarmed. "We don't want
any one to know."
This but whetted Polly's curiosity. "I think you might tell me," she
pouted.
"I can't. I promised I wouldn't. You shall know as soon as Mary says
I may tell."
"Oh, I don't care then. Keep your old secrets if you want to," and
Polly flounced out of bed and began vigorously to prepare for her bath.
For the rest of the time before breakfast she did not speak a word to
Molly who felt that she was indeed between two fires. She had promised
not to tell Aunt Ada and if Polly were to tell Uncle Dick that morning
that something was wrong, it might add to Mary's troubles. She
pondered the matter well while she was dressing, and by the time she
had tied on her hair ribbon she had concluded to forestall Polly by
telling her Uncle Dick something of what was the matter. She decided
that she could do so without betraying Mary's confidence. So she
stepped down-stairs ahead of Polly and joined her Uncle Dick who was
energetically walking up and down the porch.
"Hello, Mollykins!" he cried. "I'm getting up an appetite for
breakfast. Come and join me."
"As if you ever had to do anything to get up an appetite," retorted
Molly, slipping her hand under his arm. "Oh, you take such long steps
I have to take two to keep up with you."
"So much the better, then you work twice as hard and can have twice as
much. I peeped into the kitchen, but Luella looked as fierce as a
sitting hen, and I didn't dare to stay; however, I know we are to have
hot rolls for breakfast; I saw them."
"The pocketbook kind, with the lovely brown crust all around? Good! I
certainly want a double appetite for those. Uncle Dick, you oughtn't
to tell other people's secrets, ought you?"
"No-o, not usually. Whose secret is burning in your breast?"
"Why--promise not to tell a soul."
"Is it a murder?"
"No, of course not."
"Is it grand larceny?"
"I don't know what that is."
"It is stealing something worth while, not like a loaf of bread nor a
pin, nor anything of that kind. You know the copy-book says: 'It is a
sin to steal a pin.'"
"Is it a sin to lose a pin?"
"Why, no, not unless it is a breastpin or a scarf-pin and you wilfully
throw it to the fishes."
Molly drew a sigh of relief. "Suppose you lose something that belongs
to some one else; is that a sin?"
"Why no, it is a misfortune, not a crime. You don't do it on purpose,
you see, and in fact I think the loser generally feels worse than the
one the thing belongs to. What have you lost? Not my favorite
scarf-pin, I hope. Have you been using it to pin rags around your
doll?"
"Oh, Uncle Dick, of course I haven't. I was only asking, just because
I wanted to know."
"As a seeker after ethical truths. It does you credit, Miss Shelton.
You will probably join a college settlement when you are older, or at
least write a paper on moral responsibilities."
"Oh, Uncle Dick, you do use such silly long words."
"I forget, when you tackle these abstruse subjects. I will come down
from my lofty perch, Molly. What more can your wise uncle tell you?"
"If a person loses something very costly, something that has been lent
to her, ought she to pay it back?"
"It is generally supposed to be the proper thing to replace it, but
half the world doesn't do it; sometimes because they can't and
sometimes because they don't want to. Then, sometimes the one to whom
the thing belonged, insists upon not having it replaced, and would feel
very uncomfortable if it were, though, from the standpoint of strict
honesty, one should always make good any borrowed article whether lost,
strayed or stolen."
"Would you insist upon its not being made good?"
"I shouldn't wonder if I were that kind of gander."
"Would Aunt Ada?"
"I think she's probably that kind of goose."
"Oh, I am so glad she is a goose."
"Glad who is a goose?" said Aunt Ada from the doorway.
"We were talking about you," said her brother laughing. "Molly was
calling you a goose."
"Oh, Uncle Dick, you began it."
"Did I? Well, never mind. I smell those rolls, Molly, and I feel that
I can demolish at least six. Come on, let's get at them."
Although she had not really carried the subject as far as she wanted,
Molly felt that matters were not so bad for Mary as they had at first
appeared, therefore, she took the first opportunity to reassure her on
that point. Polly walked off to the Whartons' immediately after
breakfast, announcing with quite an air of wishing it generally known
that she would probably spend the day with Grace in the woods, and that
Luella had given her a lunch to take.
Miss Ada smiled when this announcement was made. She realized that
there had been some childish squabble and she never paid much attention
to such. Mary saw at once that Polly was jealous of Molly's attentions
to her small self, and Molly felt so grieved at Polly's desertion that
she could hardly keep back the tears. It was very hard to do right in
this world, she thought. If she were loyal to Mary she must lose
Polly's companionship, and she did love to be with Polly more than any
one she had ever known. If she clung to Polly, she must give up Mary
at a time when Mary most needed her.
She looked after Polly skipping over the hummocks to Grace Wharton's
and wished she were going, too. It was so lovely in the woods. As if
reading her thought, her Aunt Ada came up and put a hand on her
shoulder. "Suppose we all take our luncheon in the woods to-day," she
said. "It is too lovely to stay indoors a minute. Should you kitties
like to go? Dick is to be off sailing with Will Wharton and we three
could have a nice quiet time. I'll take some books; you can have your
dolls, and we'll go to Willow Cove."
"That's where Polly is going," said Molly quickly.