A REVELATION
Marjorie was practising.
It was a lovely afternoon, and she wanted to go out and play, but her
hour's practising must be done first. She was conscientious about it,
and tried very hard to hold her hands just right, as she counted,
one--two--three--four; one--two--three--four.
Mrs. Corey, Hester's mother, was calling on Mrs. Maynard, and the two
ladies sat on the veranda, just outside the window near which the piano
stood.
Marjorie did not listen to their conversation, for it was of no interest
to her, and, too, she was devoting all her attention to her exercises.
Usually, she didn't mind practising, but to-day the Sand Club was
waiting for her, and her practice hour seemed interminable.
"One--two--three--four," she counted to herself, when something Mrs.
Corey said arrested her attention.
"Your oldest daughter?" Marjorie heard her exclaim; "you amaze me!"
Midget had no thought of eavesdropping, and as the piano was near the
open window, surely they could hear her practising, and so knew she was
there.
But Mrs. Maynard answered, in a low, serious voice, "Yes, my oldest
girl. She is not our child. She is a foundling. We adopted her when an
infant."
"Really?" said Mrs. Corey, much interested. "How did that happen?"
"Well," said Mrs. Maynard, "my husband desired it, and I consented. She
has grown up a good girl, but of course I can't feel toward her as I
feel toward my own children."
"No, of course not," agreed Mrs. Corey. "The others are all your own?"
"Yes, they are my own."
"She doesn't know this, does she?"
"Oh, no, we have never let her suspect it. She thinks I am her mother,
and she thinks I love her as I do my own children. But it is hard for me
to pretend affection for her, when I remember her humble origin."
"Your husband? Does he care for her?"
"He feels much as I do. You see, she is not of as fine a nature as our
own children. Of course he can't help seeing that. But we both do our
best for the girl."
"Good for you, Mrs. Maynard; that's fine!"
"Do you really think so, Mrs. Corey? I'm afraid that----"
But Marjorie heard no more. She had stopped her practising at the first
words of these awful disclosures.
Not her mother's own child! She, Marjorie Maynard! It couldn't be
possible! But as the conversation went on, perfectly audible, though not
in loud tones, she could no longer doubt the truth of what her mother
was saying.
Dreadful it might be,--unbelievable it might be,--but true it must be.
"One--two--three--four," mechanically she tried to strike the keys, but
her fingers refused to move.
She left the piano, and went slowly up to her own room.
Her pretty room that her mother,--no, that Mrs. Maynard,--had fixed up
for her with flowering chintz hangings and frilly white curtains.
_Not_ her mother! Who, then, was or had been her mother?
And then Marjorie's calm gave way. She threw herself on her little white
bed, and burying her face in the pillow she sobbed convulsively. Her
thoughts flew to her father,--but no, he wasn't her father! King wasn't
her brother,--nor Kitty her sister! Nor Rosy Posy----?
It was all too dreadful. At every fresh thought about it, it grew worse.
Dear old King, she had never realized before how much she loved him. And
Kitty! And Father and Mother! She _would_ call them that, even though
they were no relation to her.
For a long time Marjorie cried,--great, deep, heart-racking sobs that
wore her out.
At last she settled down into a calm of despair.
"I am going away," she said, to herself. "I won't stay here where they
have to _pretend_ they love me! Oh, Mother, _Mother_!"
But no one heard the little girl's grief. Mrs. Maynard still sat on the
veranda, talking to Mrs. Corey; King was down at Sand Court; and the
nurse had taken Rosamond out for a walk.
"I _must_ go away," poor Marjorie went on; "I _can't_ stay here, I
should _suffocate_!"
She sat up on the edge of her bed, and clasped her hands in utter
desolation. Where could she go? Not to Cousin Ethel's, she'd only bring
her back home. _Home!_ She hadn't any home,--no _real_ home! She thought
of Grandma Sherwood's, but she wasn't her grandma at all! Then she
thought of Grandma Maynard. That was a curious thought, for though
Grandma Maynard wasn't her own grandmother, either, yet, a few months
ago, she had begged Marjorie to live with her and be her little girl.
Surely she must have _known_ that Midget wasn't really her
granddaughter, and yet she had really loved her enough to want her to
live there.
Then Grandma Maynard wouldn't have to _pretend_ to love her.
Clearly, that was the only thing to do. She couldn't run away, with no
destination in view.
She had no claim on Grandma Sherwood or Uncle Steve, but Grandma Maynard
_had_ wanted her,--really _wanted_ her.
Marjorie looked at the little clock on her dressing table. It was almost
three o'clock. She knew there was a train to New York about three, and
she resolved to go on it.
At first she thought of taking some things in a bag, but she decided not
to, as she didn't want any of the things the Maynards had given her.
"Oh," she thought, while the tears came afresh; "my name isn't even
Maynard! I don't know _what_ it is!"
She put on a blue linen dress, and a blue hat with roses on it. Some
instinct of sadness made her tie her hair with black ribbon.
As she went downstairs, she heard Mrs. Corey say, "I am astounded at
these revelations!" and her mother replied, "Dear friend, I knew you
would be."
Marjorie wasn't crying then, she felt as if she had no tears left. She
shut her teeth together hard, and went out by a side door. This way she
could reach the street unobserved, and she walked straight ahead to the
railroad station. She had a five-dollar gold piece that Uncle Steve had
sent her on Christmas, and that, with a little silver change, she
carried in her pocketbook. But she left behind her pearl ring and all
the little trinkets or valuables she possessed.
She felt as if her heart had turned to stone. It wasn't so much anger at
Mr. and Mrs. Maynard as it was that awful sense of desolation,--as if
the world had come to an end.
At one moment she would think she missed King the most; then with the
thought of her father, a rush of tears would come; and then her poor
little tortured heart would cry out, "Oh, Mother, _Mother_!"
She knew perfectly well the way to New York, and though the station
agent looked at her sharply when she bought a ticket, he said nothing.
For Marjorie was a self-possessed little girl, of good manners and quiet
air when she chose to be. With her ticket in her hand, she sat down to
wait for the train. There were few people in the station at that hour,
and no one who knew her.
When the train came puffing in, she went out and took it, in a
matter-of-fact way, as if quite accustomed to travelling alone.
Really, she felt very much frightened. She had never been on a train
alone before, and the noise of the cars and the bustle of the people,
and the shouting of the trainmen made her nervous.
And then, with a fresh flood of woe, the remembrance of _why_ she was
going would come over her, and obliterate all other considerations.
For perhaps half an hour she kept the tears back bravely enough; but as
she rode on, and realized more and more deeply what it all meant, she
could control herself no longer, and burst into a paroxysm of weeping.
She was sitting next the window, and, as there were few passengers, no
one was in the seat with her.
But when she raised her head, exhausted by her outburst of tears, a
burly red-faced man sat beside her.
"Come, come, little one, what's it all about?" he said.
His tone was kind, but his personality was not pleasant, and Marjorie
felt no inclination to confide in him.
"Nothing, sir," she said, drawing as far away from him as possible.
"Now, now, little miss, you can't cry like that, and then say there's
nothing the matter."
Marjorie wanted to rebuke his intrusion, but she didn't know exactly
what to say, so she turned toward the window and resolutely kept looking
out.
The trees and fields flying by were not very comforting. Every mile took
her farther away from her dear ones, for they _were_ dear, whether
related to her or not.
She pressed her flushed cheeks against the cool window pane. She was too
exhausted to cry any more. She seemed to have only enough strength to
say, brokenly, "Oh, Mother, _Mother_!" and then from sheer weariness of
flesh she fell into a troubled sleep.
Meantime Marjorie was missed at home. The Sand Club grew tired of
waiting for her, and King went up to the house to investigate the delay.
He trudged, whistling, up the driveway, and seeing Mrs. Corey, he
whipped off his cap, and greeted her politely.
"Where's Midget, Mother?" he asked.
"I don't know, son; isn't she with you?"
"No'm, and I'm tired waiting for her."
"Is Hester there?" asked Mrs. Corey.
"Yes, Mrs. Corey, Hester's been with us an hour, and we're waiting for
Mopsy. She said she'd come as soon as she finished her practising."
"She stopped practising some time ago," said Mrs. Corey. "I haven't
heard the piano for half an hour or more."
"I'll bet she's tucked away somewhere, reading!" exclaimed King; "I'll
hunt her out!"
"Perhaps she's gone over to Cousin Ethel's," suggested Mrs. Maynard.
"I'll hunt her up," repeated King, and he went into the house.
"Marjorie Mops! I say! Come out of that!" he cried, banging at the
closed door of her bedroom.
Getting no reply, he opened the door and looked in, but she wasn't
there.
"You old scallywag Mops!" he cried, shaking his fist at her empty room,
"I never knew you to go back on your word before! And you said you'd
come to Sand Court as soon as you could!"
He looked in the veranda hammock, and in the library, and any place
where he thought Midget might be, absorbed in a book; he inquired of the
servants; and at last he went back to his mother.
"I can't find Mopsy," he said.
"Then she _must_ be over at Cousin Ethel's. She does love to go over
there."
"Well, she oughtn't to go when she's promised to come out with us. I
never knew old Midge to break a promise before."
"Perhaps Cousin Ethel telephoned for her," suggested Mrs. Maynard.
"Though in that case, she should have told me she was going. Run over
there and see, son."
"I'll telephone over, that'll be quicker," said King, and ran back into
the house.
"Nope," he said, returning; "she isn't there, and hasn't been there
to-day. Mother, don't you think it's queer?"
"Why, yes, King, it is a little queer. But she can't be far away.
Perhaps she walked down to the train to meet Father."
"Oh, Mother, that would be a crazy thing to do, when she knew we were
waiting for her."
"Well, maybe she went walking with Rosamond and Nurse Nannie. She's
certainly somewhere around. Run away now, King. Mrs. Corey and I are
busy."
King walked slowly away.
"It's pretty queer," he said to Hester and the Craig boys; "Mops is
nowhere to be found."
"Well, don't look so scared," said Tom; "she can't be kidnapped. If it
was your baby sister, that would be different. But Midget has just gone
off on some wild-goose chase,--or she is hiding to tease us."
"Perhaps she wrote to Kitty," suggested Hester, "and went down to the
post-office to mail it."
"Not likely," said King. "She knows the postman collects at six o'clock.
Well, I s'pose she _is_ hiding somewhere, reading a book. Won't I give
it to her when I catch her! For she _said_ she'd come out here, right
after her practice hour."
A dullness seemed to fall on the Sand Club members present. Not only was
Marjorie their ringleader and moving spirit, but somehow King's
uneasiness impressed all of them, and soon Dick Craig said, "I'm going
home."
King raised no objection, and, after sitting listlessly around for a few
moments, the others all went home.
But Tom turned back.
"I say," he began, "you know Mopsy is somewhere, all right."
"Of course she's somewhere, Tom, but she never did anything like this
before, and I can't understand it. The only thing I can think of is,
that she's gone down on the pier. But she never goes there alone."
"Well, there's lots of things she might be doing. Come on, let's go down
on the pier and take a look."
The two boys walked out to the end of the pier and back again, but saw
no sign of Marjorie.
On their way home, Tom turned in at his own house.
"Good-by, old chap," he said; "don't look so worried. Midget will be
sitting up laughing at you when you get home."
King said good-by, and went on. He felt a strange depression of heart,
as if something must have happened to Midget. He knew his mother felt no
alarm, and perhaps it was foolish, but the fact remained that Midge had
never acted like that before. Mr. Maynard came home at six o'clock, and
Marjorie had not yet made an appearance.
He looked very much alarmed, and at sight of his anxiety, Mrs. Maynard
grew worried.
"Why, Ed," she exclaimed, "you don't think there's anything wrong, do
you?"
"I hope not, Helen, but it's so unusual. I can only think of the ocean.
Does she ever go down and sit on the beach alone?"
"No," said King, positively; "she never does anything like that, alone.
We're always together."
"And you hadn't had any quarrel, or anything?"
"Oh, no, Father; nothing of the sort. She went to practise right after
luncheon, and said she'd be out in an hour."
"I heard her practising, while Mrs. Corey was here," said Mrs. Maynard,
reminiscently; "but I don't remember just when she stopped."
"Well," said Mr. Maynard, "it's extraordinary, but I can't think
anything's wrong with the child. You know she always has been
mischievous, and I think she's playing some game on us. We may as well
go to dinner."
But nobody could eat dinner. The sight of Midget's empty chair began to
seem tragic, and King choked and left the table.
Mrs. Maynard burst into tears, and rose also. Her husband followed her.
"Don't worry, Helen," he urged; "she's sure to be safe and sound
somewhere."
"Oh, I don't know, Ed! Such a thing as this never happened before! Oh,
find her, Ed, _do_ find her!"
King had run over to the Bryants' and now returned, accompanied by those
two very much alarmed people.
"We must _do_ something!" exclaimed Cousin Jack. "Of course something
has happened to the child! She isn't one to cut up any such game on
purpose. Have you looked in her room?"
"What for?" asked Mrs. Maynard, helplessly.
"Why, to see if you can discover anything unusual. I'm going up!"
Mr. Bryant flew upstairs two steps at a time, and they all followed. But
nothing unusual was to be seen. The pretty room was in order, and no
clothing of any sort was lying about.
Mrs. Maynard looked in the cupboard.
"Why, her blue linen is gone!" she said, "and here's the white piqué she
had on at luncheon. And her blue hat is gone; she must have dressed up
to go out somewhere to call, and unexpectedly stayed to dinner."
"Does she ever do that?" demanded Cousin Jack.
"She never has before," answered Mrs. Maynard, falling weakly back on
Marjorie's bed. "Why, this pillow is all wet!"
They looked at each other in consternation. They saw, too, the deep
imprint of a head in the dented pillow. Surely, this meant tragedy of
some sort, for if the child had sobbed so hard, she must have been in
deep trouble.
"We must find her!" said Cousin Jack, starting for the stairs.