JESSICA BROWN
Meantime, where was Marjorie?
To go back to where we left her, in the railroad train, she had fallen
asleep from utter exhaustion of nerve and body.
But her nap was of short duration. She woke with a start, and found, to
her surprise, that she was leaning her head against somebody's shoulder.
She looked up, to see the red-faced man gravely regarding her, though he
smiled as their eyes met.
"Feel better, little miss?" he said, and again Marjorie felt a strange
repulsion, though he spoke kindly enough.
Her mind was bewildered, she was nervous and frightened, yet she had a
positive conviction that she ought not to talk to this strange man. She
did not like his face, even if his voice was kind.
"Yes, thank you," she said, in distantly polite tones, and again she
squeezed herself over toward the window, and away from her seatmate. She
sat up very straight, trying to act as grown-up as possible, and then
the train stopped at a large station. There were crowds of people
hurrying and scurrying about on the platform, and Marjorie was almost
sure she had reached Jersey City, where she knew she must change for New
York.
She wanted to inquire, but the conductor was not in sight, and she
didn't like to ask the man beside her.
So she rose, as if to leave the car.
The red-faced man rose also, and stepped back as she passed him. In a
moment she found herself on the platform, and the train soon went on.
Everything about the station looked unfamiliar, and glancing up, she saw
by a large sign that she was at Newark! She had never before been in
Newark, though she knew in a general way where it was. She went
uncertainly into the station, and looked at the clock. It was after
five. Marjorie knew she could take another train, and proceed to Jersey
City, and so to New York, but her courage had failed her, and she
couldn't bear the thought of travelling any further.
And yet, how could she stay where she was? Also, she began to feel very
hungry. The exhaustion caused by her emotional grief, and her wearisome
journey, made her feel hollow and faint.
She sank down on a seat in the waiting-room, sadly conscious of her
lonely and desolate situation.
She tried to summon anew her natural pluck and independence.
"Marjorie Maynard!" she said, to herself, and then stopped,--overwhelmed
by the thought that she had no right even to that name!
Presently a voice beside her said: "Now, little miss, won't you let me
help you?"
She turned sharply, and looked the red-faced man in the eyes.
He didn't look very refined, he didn't even look good, but the sound of
a friendly voice was like a straw held out to a drowning man.
"How can you help me?" she said, miserably.
"Well, fust off, where've ye set out fur?"
The man was uncultured, but there was a note of sincerity in his speech
that impressed Marjorie, now that she was so friendless and alone.
"New York," she replied.
"Why'd ye get out at Newark?"
"I made a mistake," she confessed.
"An' what be ye goin' to do now?"
"I don't know."
"Ah, jest what I thought! An' then ye ask, how kin I help ye?"
"Well, how can you?"
Under the spur of his strong voice, Marjorie's spirits had revived the
least bit, and she spoke bravely to him.
"Now, that's more peart-like. Wal, in the fust place I kin take ye home
with me, an' my old woman'll keep ye fer the night, an' I guess that's
what ye need most."
"Where do you live?"
"'Bout five miles out in the country."
"How do you get there?"
"Wal, I ain't got none o' them autymobiles, nor yet no airship; but I've
got a old nag that can do the piece in an hour or so."
"Why do you want to take me home with you?" asked Marjorie, for she
couldn't help a feeling that there was something wrong.
"Why, bless your heart, child, bekase you're alone and forlorn and
hungry and all done out. An' it's my privit opinion as how ye've run
away from home."
"No, not that," said Midget, sadly; "I haven't any home."
"Ye don't say so! Wal, wal, never mind fer to-night. You go 'long with
me, an' Zeb Geary, he'll look after ye fer a spell, anyhow."
There was no mistaking the kindness now, and Marjorie looked up into the
man's red face with trust and gratitude.
"I'd be glad to go with you and stay till to-morrow," she said; "but
first I want to own up that I didn't 'zactly trust you,--but now I do."
"Wal, wal, thet shows a nice sperrit! Now, you come along o' me, an'
don't try to talk nor nothin'. Jest come along."
He took Midget's hand, and they went down the steps, and along the
street for a block or two, to a sort of livery stable.
"Set here a minute," said Mr. Geary, and he left Marjorie on a bench,
which stood outside, against the building.
After a time he returned, with an ancient-looking vehicle, known as a
Rockaway, and a patient, long-suffering horse.
"Git in back," he said, and Marjorie climbed in, too tired and sad to
care much whither she might be taken.
They jogged along at a fair pace, but Mr. Geary, on the front seat,
offered no conversation, merely looking back occasionally, as if to
assure himself that his guest was still with him.
After a mile or two, Marjorie began to think more coherently.
She wondered what she would have done if she hadn't chanced to fall in
with this kind, if rough, friend.
She wondered whether she could ever have reached Grandma Maynard's house
in safety, for the crowds and confusion were much worse than she had
anticipated, and in New York they would be worse still.
At any rate, she would gladly accept shelter and hospitality for the
night, and continue her journey next day, during the earlier hours.
It was well after six o'clock when the jogging old horse turned into a
lane, and finally stopped at a somewhat tumble-down porch. An old woman
appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Wal, Zeb," she called out, "did ye get back?"
"Yes, Sary, an' I brought ye a visitor for the night."
"A what! Wal, I do declar'!" and Mrs. Geary stepped down and peered into
the back seat of the Rockaway. "Who in creation is that?"
"I don't know," returned her husband.
"Ye don't know! I swan, Zeb Geary, you must be plumb crazy! Whar'd ye
get her?"
"Thar, thar, now, Sary, don't be askin' questions, but take the pore
lamb in, an' cuddle her up some. She's plumb beat out!"
"Come on, dearie," said the old wife, who had caught sight of Marjorie's
winsome face and sad eyes. "Come along o' me,--I'll take keer o' ye."
Marjorie let herself be helped from the rickety old vehicle, and went
with her hostess, in at the kitchen door.
It wasn't an attractive kitchen, such as Eliza's, at Grandma Sherwood's;
it was bare and comfortless-looking, though clean and in good order.
"Now, now, little miss," said Mrs. Geary, hobbling about, "fust of all,
let's get some supper down ye. When did ye eat last?"
"This noon," said Marjorie, and then, at the remembrance of the happy,
merry luncheon table at Seacote, she put her head down on her arms, and
sobbed as if she had never cried before.
"Bless 'ee, bless 'ee, now, my lamb; don't go fer to take on so. There,
there, have a sup o' warm milk! Oh, my! my!"
In deference to Mrs. Geary's solicitude, Marjorie tried hard to conquer
her sobs, and had finally succeeded, when Mr. Geary came in.
"Don't bother her any to-night, Mother," he said, after a sharp glance
at Marjorie; "she's all on edge. Feed her up good, and tuck her into
bed."
"Yes, yes; here, my lamb, here's a nice soft-boiled egg for your tea.
You'll like that, now?"
"Thank you," said Marjorie, her great, dark eyes looking weird in the
dimly lighted kitchen.
After a satisfying supper, Mrs. Geary took the child up to a low,
slant-ceiled room, that was as bare and clean as the kitchen. The old
woman bathed Marjorie's face and hands with unexpected gentleness, and
then helped her to undress. She brought a coarse, plain nightgown of her
own, but it was clean and soft, and felt comfortable to the tired child.
Then she was tucked between coarse sheets, on a hard bed, but so weary
was she that it seemed comfortable.
Mrs. Geary patted her arm and hummed softly an old hymn-tune, and poor
little Marjorie dropped asleep almost at once.
"What do you make of it, Father?" asked the old woman, returning to the
kitchen.
"She run away from her home fer some reason. Said she hadn't got no
home. Stepmother, I shouldn't wonder. We'll find out to-morrow, an' I'll
tote her back."
"Mebbe there'll be a reward."
"Mebbe so. But we'll do our best by her, reward or no. But if so be they
is one, I'll be mighty glad, fer I had pore luck sellin' that hay
to-day."
"Wal, chirk up, Father; mebbe things'll grow brighter soon."
"Mebbe they will, Sary,--mebbe they will."
In her unaccustomed surroundings, Marjorie woke early. The sun was just
reddening the eastern horizon, and the birds were chirping in the
trees.
She had that same sinking of the heart, that same feeling of desolation,
but she did not cry, for her nerves were rested, and her brain
refreshed, by her night's sleep. She lay in her poor, plain bed and
considered the situation.
"It doesn't matter," she said, sternly, to herself, "how bad I feel
about it, it's true. I'm not a Maynard, and never was. I don't know who
I am, or what my name is. And I don't believe I'd better go to Grandma
Maynard's. Perhaps she doesn't know I'm not really her granddaughter,
and then she wouldn't want me, after all. For I'd have to tell her. So I
just believe I'll earn my own living and be self-supporting."
This plan appealed to Marjorie's imagination. It seemed grand and noble
and heroic. Moreover, she was very much in earnest, and in this crisp,
early morning she felt braver and stronger than she had felt the night
before.
"Yes," she thought on, "I ought to earn my living,--for I've no claim on
Fa--on Mr. Maynard. Perhaps these people here can find me some work to
do. At any rate, I'll ask them."
She jumped up, and dressed herself, for she heard Mr. and Mrs. Geary
already in the kitchen.
"My stars!" said her hostess, as she appeared; "how peart you look!
Slept good, didn't ye?"
"Fine!" said Midget; "good-morning, both of you. Can't I help you?"
Mrs. Geary was transferring baked apples from a pan to an old cracked
platter. Though unaccustomed to such work, Marjorie was quick and deft
at anything, and in a moment she had the apples nicely arranged and
placed on the table. She assisted in other ways, and chattered gayly as
she worked.
Too gayly, Mrs. Geary thought, and she glanced knowingly at her husband,
for they both realized Marjorie's flow of good spirits was forced,--not
spontaneous.
After breakfast was over, Midget said, "Now, I'll wash up the dishes,
Mrs. Geary, and you sit down and take a little rest."
"Land sake, child! I ain't tired. An' you ain't used to this work, I see
you ain't."
"That doesn't matter. I can do it, and I must do something to pay for my
board,--I have very little money."
"Hear the child talk! Wal, you kin help me with the work, a little, an'
then we must come to an understandin'."
Marjorie worked with a nervous haste that betrayed her inexperience as
well as her willingness, and after a time the plain little house was in
order.
Mr. Geary came in from doing his out-of-door "chores," and Marjorie saw
the "understandin'" was about to be arrived at. But she was prepared;
she had made up her mind as to her course, and was determined to pursue
it.
"Now, fust of all," said Mr. Geary, kindly, but with decision, "what is
your name?"
"Jessica Brown," said Marjorie, promptly.
She had already assured herself that as she had no real right to the
name she had always used, she was privileged to choose herself a new
one. Jessica had long been a favorite with her, and Brown seemed
non-committal.
Mr. Geary looked at her sharply, but she said the name glibly, and
Jessica was what he called "highfalutin" enough to fit her evident
station in life, so he made no comment.
"Where do you live?" he went on.
"I have no home," said Marjorie, steadily; "I am a findling."
"A what?"
"A findling,--from the asylum."
The term didn't sound _quite_ right to her,--but she couldn't think of
the exact word,--and having used it, concluded to stick to it.
Zeb Geary was not highly educated, but this word, so soberly used,
struck his humorous sense, and he put his brawny hand over his mouth to
hide his smiles.
"Yep," he said, after a moment, "I understand,--I do. And whar'd ye set
out fer?"
"I started for New York, but I've decided not to go there."
"Oh, ye hev, hev ye? An' jes' what do ye calkilate to do?"
"Well, Mr. Geary," Marjorie looked troubled,--"and Mrs. Geary, I'd
_like_ to stay here for a while. I'll work for you, and you can pay me
by giving me food and lodging. I s'pose I wouldn't be worth very much at
first, but I'd learn fast,--you know,--I do everything fast,--Mother
always said so,--I,--I mean, the lady I used to live with, said so. And
I'd try very hard to please you both. If you'd let me stay a while,
perhaps you'd learn to like me. You see, I've _got_ to earn my own
living, and I haven't anywhere to go, and not a friend in the world but
you two."
These astonishing words, from the pretty, earnest child, in the dainty
and fashionable dress of the best people, completely floored the old
country couple.
"Well, I swan!" exclaimed Mr. Geary, while Mrs. Geary said, "My stars!"
twice, with great emphasis.
"Please," Marjorie went on, "please give me a trial; for I've been
thinking it over, and I don't see what I can possibly do but 'work out.'
Isn't that what you call it? And if I learn some with you, I might work
out in New York, later on."
"Bless your baby heart!" exclaimed Mrs. Geary, wiping her eyes which
were moist from conflicting emotions. "Stay here you shall, if you want
to,--though land knows we can't well afford the keep of another."
"Oh, are you too poor to keep me?" cried Marjorie, dismayed. "I don't
want to be a burden to you. I thought I could help enough to pay for my
'keep.'"
"So ye kin, dearie,--so ye kin," said old Zeb, heartily. "We'll fix it
some way, Mother, at least for the present. Now, Jessiky, don't ye
worrit a mite more. We'll take keer on ye, and the work ye'll do'll
more'n pay fer all ye'll eat."
This was noble-hearted bluff on Zeb's part, for he was hard put to it to
get food for himself and his old wife.
He was what is known as "shif'less." He worked spasmodically, and spent
hours dawdling about, accomplishing nothing, on his old neglected farm.
But, somehow, a latent ambition and energy seemed to reawaken in his old
heart, and he determined to make renewed efforts to "get ahead" for this
pretty child's sake. And meantime, if she liked to think she was
helping, by such work as those dainty little hands could do, he was
willing to humor her.
Beside all this, Zeb didn't believe her story. He still thought she had
run away from a well-to-do home; and he believed it was because of an
unloving stepmother.
But he was not minded to worry the child further with questions at the
present time, and it was part of his nature calmly to await
developments.
"Let it go at that, Mother," he advised. "Take Jessiky as your
maid-of-all-work, on trial,"--he smiled at his wife over Marjorie's
bowed head,--"an' ef she's a good little worker, we'll keep her fer the
present."
"My stars!" said Mrs. Geary, and then sat in helpless contemplation of
these surprising events.
"And I _will_ be a good worker!" declared Marjorie, "and perhaps,
sometime, we can sort of decorate the house, and make it sort of,--sort
of prettier."
"We can't spend nothin'," declared Mr. Geary, "'cause we ain't got
nothin' to spend. So don't think we kin, little miss."
"No," said Marjorie, smiling at him, "but I mean, decorate with wild
flowers, or even branches of trees, or pine cones or things like that."
A lump came in Midget's throat, as she remembered how often she had
"decorated" with these things in honor of some gay festivity at home.
Oh, what were they doing there, now? Had they missed her? Would they
look for her? They _never_ could find her tucked away here in the
country.
And Kitty! What _would_ she say when she heard of it? And _all_ of them!
And Mother,--_Mother_!
But all this heart outcry was silent. Her kind old friends heard no word
or murmur of complaint or dissatisfaction. If the forlorn old house were
distasteful to Marjorie, she didn't show it; if her room seemed to her
uninhabitable, nobody knew it from her. She ran out to the fields, and
returned with an armful of ox-eyed daisies, and bunches of clover; and,
with some grapevine trails, she made a real transformation of the dingy,
bare walls.
"Well, I swan!" Mr. Geary said, when he saw it; and his wife exclaimed,
"My stars!"