"I thought o" that, child, and the last letter Jabe writ he directed to the care of Miss Benson, the woman that keeps the intelligence office; but that"s two weeks an" more ago, and I haven"t heerd a word. You see, Miss Marion, there aint a better-hearted gal livin" than my Jemimy, but she got kinder lonesome and discontented-like a livin" way off here, and took it into her head she"d like the city better. She allus was a high-sperrited gal, and "twas dull for her here, that"s a fact; but I wish to the Lord I"d held my own and hadn"t let her gone; for there"s awful places in them big cities, and my gal"s pretty enough to make any one look at her. I dunno, child, but I can"t help feelin" somethin"
dreadful"s happened to her."
"O auntie, you must not get discouraged so easily. I thought you were one of the kind who always looked on the bright side of things," said Marion in a cheerful tone.
"Wall, dear, I do ginerally; but this has just keeled me right over, and I don"t seem to know where I be. You see I haint got any one in the city as I ken call upon to help me. I don"t know a soul in the place I could get to hunt her up. Sometimes I think I"ll go down there; but where"s the use? I should be like a hen with her head cut off in such a great, strange place as Boston."
"Well, auntie, I"ll try my best to help you. I tell you what I"ll do: you give me Jemima"s address, and I"ll write to my mother, and get her to look her up. She has to go to those offices very often after servants, and like as not she might stumble right on her. Now cheer up, auntie, for I feel just as if we should find her;" and Marion pa.s.sed her hand over Aunt Bettie"s wrinkled forehead and gray hair as tenderly as if she were her own mother.
Aunt Bettie looked at Marion with the tears still glistening in her eyes, and a sad smile on her face, as she said:--
"Marion Berkley it aint every gal as would take so much trouble for an old creetur like me, even if she noticed I was sad and worried. You"ve comforted a poor, old woman who was most broken-hearted. May the Lord bless you for it, an" I know he will."
Marion smiled up at the tender, old face that looked down at her, while her own flushed with pleasure at the words of commendation.
It was a pity that there were no un.o.bserved witnesses of the scene; for Marion Berkley, cold and haughty, apparently indifferent alike to the praise or blame of those around her, was a very different person from this gentle girl. Her whole soul was shining through her eyes; all her haughtiness, pride, and coldness had fallen from her, and she stood almost like one transfigured, her face beaming with the light which makes the plainest face seem almost divine,--that of pure, disinterested sympathy for the sufferings and troubles of a fellow-being.
For a moment there was silence between the two, while the tears rolled down both of their cheeks; but Marion dashed hers away, as she exclaimed in a cheery voice:--
"Come, auntie, it is getting late, and I must be off; so get me the address, please."
"To be sure, child! How thoughtless I be! I"ll get it for yer right away;" and Aunt Bettie went into the house with something of her usual briskness, and returning, brought out a sc.r.a.p of paper, on which was written in a stiff, cramped, school-boy hand this direction:--
"MISS JEMIMA DOBBS, _In Kare of Mis Benson_, Number 22 Eest Crorfud Street, Boston."
Marion could hardly repress a smile of amus.e.m.e.nt at the remarkable orthography; but remembering that in Aunt Bettie"s eyes it was a perfect monument to the glory of her son Jabe, she made no comments, and folding it up, tucked it carefully away in her purse. Then, with a bright, encouraging smile, she said good-by to Aunt Bettie, and hurried off down the road.
It was much later than she thought, and as the days were rapidly growing shorter, it was quite dusk, and the girls were entirely out of sight and hearing.
But her thoughts kept her company on her long walk, and all the way home she was turning over in her mind the probabilities and improbabilities of her mother"s being able to find the young, unknown country girl in a large city like Boston.
Miss Christine had begun to feel quite anxious about her by the time she arrived, and Florence met her in the hall with a hearty caress, to which she responded with her old warmth.
"Why, you dear, old thing!" exclaimed Florence; "what has kept you so long? It must have been forlorn walking home at this hour."
"Oh, I did not mind it; I had something to think of," replied Marion, as she pulled off her muddy rubbers before going upstairs. "I"ll tell you by and by; I must run up and get ready for supper."
That night, after they got to bed, Marion gave Florence a synopsis of her conversation with Aunt Bettie, and told her of her plan of writing to her mother for a.s.sistance.
"Well," said Florence, "I think it was real good of you to think of it.
What a queer girl you are! I knew we didn"t have quite as jolly a time as usual up there, but I never noticed there was anything the matter with Aunt Bettie; and if I had I don"t believe it would have occurred to me to go back and comfort her. O Marion!"--and she threw her arm over her friend"s shoulder,--"how much good there is in you! Why won"t you let it all come out?"
"I don"t think there was anything particularly good in that. You see there was no virtue in my being kind to the poor, old thing, because I could not help it. If there had been any hateful feelings to overcome, or any wounded pride to interfere, I probably should not have done it."
"I"m not so sure of that, Marion. You do conquer yourself sometimes."
"Not often, dear," Marion replied, with a little, nervous, forced laugh.
"It is too much trouble. Good-night, I must go to sleep."
But it was long before sleep came to Marion. She laid perfectly still, so as not to disturb Florence, but the small hours found her still awake. She had been for some time thoroughly dissatisfied with herself, and the thought that she had been of some comfort to any one was indeed pleasant to her; but she would not attribute to herself credit that did not belong to her.
It was just as she had said to Florence; she could not help being kind to the poor old woman in her trouble; she had obeyed the promptings of her naturally warm heart. It had been an impulsive action, not one in which a disagreeable duty had been plainly pointed out for her to follow; and she determinedly put aside all feeling of self-satisfaction.
She knew that if Rachel Drayton had made a similar appeal to her kindness and sympathy, her heart would have been resolutely closed against her, and she would not have spoken a single encouraging word.
This thought thrust itself upon her again and again. She tried to put it from her, but it was no use; she could not evade it. She told herself that she was ridiculously conscientious; that this girl had no claims upon her; and that she had done all that Miss Christine asked of her; treated Rachel politely and courteously; but she knew that her politeness had been cold and formal, and her courtesy less kindly than she would bestow upon a beggar at the door. But she said to herself, Florence makes up for all my deficiencies. This bitter thought, in various forms, had rankled in her breast day and night. She had often said that nothing could ever make her jealous of Florence; their affection had been too lasting, too much a part of themselves, for either to suspect the other of inconstancy; and now she was the first to doubt.
But the last words of Florence, as they talked that night, came back to her, and she remembered the fond embrace and the earnestness of her voice as she besought her to act her real self.
Should she doubt that generous heart, that had shown its love for her in a thousand ways, because, when it was appealed to by a fatherless, motherless girl, it had responded with all the warmth of its true, generous nature?
No, she could not do it; she felt that it was only another reason for loving her more, and tears of shame and sorrow filled her eyes, as, bending over in the darkness, she pressed a kiss upon the lips of her sleeping companion.
Her unjust suspicion of her friend vanquished and conquered forever, her thoughts gradually wandered back to Aunt Bettie, and with her mind full of plans and projects in her behalf, she at last fell asleep.
CHAPTER VIII.
AT CHURCH.
Sunday morning came bright and clear, but very cold, and many of the girls made their appearance in the library, shaking and shivering, as if they had never before experienced a northern winter.
"Gracious me!" exclaimed Sarah Brown, "I"m almost frozen. My room is as cold as a barn! My cheeks are as blue as a razor, and my nose looks like a great cranberry. Do let me get near the fire, Georgie; you"re keeping the heat off of every one."
Georgie made way for her, quietly remarking, as she did so:--
"Well, Sarah, I must say the cold is not very becoming to your style of beauty; your nose and hair together ought to heat this room."
"You needn"t say anything, Miss Graham; you"re not so killing handsome yourself that you can afford to make fun of others!" hotly retorted Sarah.
It was a notable fact that these two could never come together without a pa.s.sage-at-arms. Grace"s quietly hateful remarks always excited Sarah to a most unmitigated degree, and she could not seem to learn by experience that the only way to silence her was to take no notice of them; and their disputes were often great sources of amus.e.m.e.nt to the other girls.
Georgie, tall and rather distingue-looking, although not pretty, with her quietly a.s.sured manner even when she knew herself beaten, and her hypocritically soft tones, was almost always more than a match for Sarah, who never could hide her feelings no matter what they were and who always retorted as sharply and spitefully as she could. She was a warm-hearted little thing, as honest and true as she was impulsive, and Georgie"s quiet, deliberate hatefulness was more than she could bear.
If there was one subject on which Sarah was more sensitive than another it was her hair. It was a rich, reddish-yellow; very thick, long and curling, and any artist would have looked upon it with admiration; but it was the bane of Sarah"s existence. When she was a little girl it had been really red, but time had softened its shade, and many a Parisian belle might have envied Sarah its possession. Sarah could see no beauty in it, for at home she was often greeted by the name of "carrot-top,"
and "little red hen;" and once when she got into a very excited argument with her brother, and stood shaking her head at him with the long curls which she then wore, flying about her shoulders, he had run out of the room, shouting as he got well out of reach:--
"I say, Sal! how much would you charge to stand on Boston common nights, and light the city? Your head would save all the expense of gas!"
You may be pretty sure it did not take Georgie Graham long to find out Sarah"s weakness, and so the poor child"s bane was still kept before her even at school, where there were no troublesome brothers.
She resolutely brushed out her long curls, and braided them into soft, heavy braids, winding them round and round at the back of her head until it looked like a great golden bee-hive; but she could not keep the front from rippling into soft, delicate waves; or the short hairs from twisting themselves into numberless little curls, which all the crimping-pins and hot slate-pencils in the world could not imitate. This hair which Georgie Graham so affected to despise was in reality a great object of her admiration, and she would have gladly exchanged it, with its usual accompaniments of glowing cheeks and scarlet lips, for her own sallow skin and scanty, drabbish-brown locks. But I have made a digression; let us return to our group in the library.
"What are you two quarrelling about this lovely Sunday morning?" asked Florence Stevenson as she and Marion came into the room together.
"Oh, we were not quarrelling," replied Georgie. "Sarah was only remarking that her cheeks were as blue as razors and her nose like a cranberry, and I agreed with her,--that was all."