Marjorie at Seacote

  CHAPTER X

  JESSICA BROWN

  Meantime, where was Marjorie?

  To go back to where we left her, in the railroad train, she had fallenasleep from utter exhaustion of nerve and body.

  But her nap was of short duration. She woke with a start, and found, toher surprise, that she was leaning her head against somebody's shoulder.

  She looked up, to see the red-faced man gravely regarding her, though hesmiled as their eyes met.

  "Feel better, little miss?" he said, and again Marjorie felt a strangerepulsion, though he spoke kindly enough.

  Her mind was bewildered, she was nervous and frightened, yet she had apositive conviction that she ought not to talk to this strange man. Shedid not like his face, even if his voice was kind.

  "Yes, thank you," she said, in distantly polite tones, and again shesqueezed herself over toward the window, and away from her seatmate. Shesat up very straight, trying to act as grown-up as possible, and thenthe train stopped at a large station. There were crowds of peoplehurrying and scurrying about on the platform, and Marjorie was almostsure she had reached Jersey City, where she knew she must change for NewYork.

  She wanted to inquire, but the conductor was not in sight, and shedidn'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 amoment she found herself on the platform, and the train soon went on.Everything about the station looked unfamiliar, and glancing up, she sawby a large sign that she was at Newark! She had never before been inNewark, though she knew in a general way where it was. She wentuncertainly into the station, and looked at the clock. It was afterfive. Marjorie knew she could take another train, and proceed to JerseyCity, and so to New York, but her courage had failed her, and shecouldn't bear the thought of travelling any further.

  And yet, how could she stay where she was? Also, she began to feel veryhungry. The exhaustion caused by her emotional grief, and her wearisomejourney, made her feel hollow and faint.

  She sank down on a seat in the waiting-room, sadly conscious of herlonely and desolate situation.

  She tried to summon anew her natural pluck and independence.

  "Marjorie Maynard!" she said, to herself, and then stopped,--overwhelmedby the thought that she had no right even to that name!

  Presently a voice beside her said: "Now, little miss, won't you let mehelp 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 ofa 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 speechthat 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 theleast bit, and she spoke bravely to him.

  "Now, that's more peart-like. Wal, in the fust place I kin take ye homewith me, an' my old woman'll keep ye fer the night, an' I guess that'swhat 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'vegot 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 shecouldn't help a feeling that there was something wrong.

  "Why, bless your heart, child, bekase you're alone and forlorn andhungry and all done out. An' it's my privit opinion as how ye've runaway 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 withme, an' Zeb Geary, he'll look after ye fer a spell, anyhow."

  There was no mistaking the kindness now, and Marjorie looked up into theman's red face with trust and gratitude.

  "I'd be glad to go with you and stay till to-morrow," she said; "butfirst 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 thestreet 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 aRockaway, and a patient, long-suffering horse.

  "Git in back," he said, and Marjorie climbed in, too tired and sad tocare 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 toassure 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 inwith this kind, if rough, friend.

  She wondered whether she could ever have reached Grandma Maynard's housein safety, for the crowds and confusion were much worse than she hadanticipated, and in New York they would be worse still.

  At any rate, she would gladly accept shelter and hospitality for thenight, and continue her journey next day, during the earlier hours.

  It was well after six o'clock when the jogging old horse turned into alane, and finally stopped at a somewhat tumble-down porch. An old womanappeared 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 intothe 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 yeget her?"

  "Thar, thar, now, Sary, don't be askin' questions, but take the porelamb in, an' cuddle her up some. She's plumb beat out!"

  "Come on, dearie," said the old wife, who had caught sight of Marjorie'swinsome 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 wentwith 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, andsobbed 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 conquerher sobs, and had finally succeeded, when Mr. Geary came in.

  "Don't bother her any to-night, Mother," he said, after a sharp glanceat Marjorie; "she's all on edge. Feed her up good, and tuck her intobed."

  "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 thedimly 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 oldwoman bathed Marjorie's face and hands with unexpected gentleness, andthen help
ed her to undress. She brought a coarse, plain nightgown of herown, 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 wearywas she that it seemed comfortable.

  Mrs. Geary patted her arm and hummed softly an old hymn-tune, and poorlittle Marjorie dropped asleep almost at once.

  "What do you make of it, Father?" asked the old woman, returning to thekitchen.

  "She run away from her home fer some reason. Said she hadn't got nohome. Stepmother, I shouldn't wonder. We'll find out to-morrow, an' I'lltote 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 theyis one, I'll be mighty glad, fer I had pore luck sellin' that hayto-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 justreddening the eastern horizon, and the birds were chirping in thetrees.

  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 brainrefreshed, by her night's sleep. She lay in her poor, plain bed andconsidered the situation.

  "It doesn't matter," she said, sternly, to herself, "how bad I feelabout it, it's true. I'm not a Maynard, and never was. I don't know whoI am, or what my name is. And I don't believe I'd better go to GrandmaMaynard'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 Ijust believe I'll earn my own living and be self-supporting."

  This plan appealed to Marjorie's imagination. It seemed grand and nobleand heroic. Moreover, she was very much in earnest, and in this crisp,early morning she felt braver and stronger than she had felt the nightbefore.

  "Yes," she thought on, "I ought to earn my living,--for I've no claim onFa--on Mr. Maynard. Perhaps these people here can find me some work todo. At any rate, I'll ask them."

  She jumped up, and dressed herself, for she heard Mr. and Mrs. Gearyalready 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 crackedplatter. Though unaccustomed to such work, Marjorie was quick and deftat anything, and in a moment she had the apples nicely arranged andplaced on the table. She assisted in other ways, and chattered gayly asshe 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,--notspontaneous.

  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 seeyou ain't."

  "That doesn't matter. I can do it, and I must do something to pay for myboard,--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 aswell as her willingness, and after a time the plain little house was inorder.

  Mr. Geary came in from doing his out-of-door "chores," and Marjorie sawthe "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 pursueit.

  "Now, fust of all," said Mr. Geary, kindly, but with decision, "what isyour name?"

  "Jessica Brown," said Marjorie, promptly.

  She had already assured herself that as she had no real right to thename she had always used, she was privileged to choose herself a newone. Jessica had long been a favorite with her, and Brown seemednon-committal.

  Mr. Geary looked at her sharply, but she said the name glibly, andJessica was what he called "highfalutin" enough to fit her evidentstation 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 ofthe 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 tohide his smiles.

  "Yep," he said, after a moment, "I understand,--I do. And whar'd ye setout 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 meby giving me food and lodging. I s'pose I wouldn't be worth very much atfirst, but I'd learn fast,--you know,--I do everything fast,--Motheralways said so,--I,--I mean, the lady I used to live with, said so. AndI'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 ownliving, and I haven't anywhere to go, and not a friend in the world butyou two."

  These astonishing words, from the pretty, earnest child, in the daintyand fashionable dress of the best people, completely floored the oldcountry 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 beenthinking 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 workout in New York, later on."

  "Bless your baby heart!" exclaimed Mrs. Geary, wiping her eyes whichwere moist from conflicting emotions. "Stay here you shall, if you wantto,--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'twant 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 itsome way, Mother, at least for the present. Now, Jessiky, don't yeworrit a mite more. We'll take keer on ye, and the work ye'll do'llmore'n pay fer all ye'll eat."

  This was noble-hearted bluff on Zeb's part, for he was hard put to it toget food for himself and his old wife.

  He was what is known as "shif'less." He worked spasmodically, and spenthours dawdling about, accomplishing nothing, on his old neglected farm.

  But, somehow, a latent ambition and energy seemed to reawaken in his oldheart, and he determined to make renewed efforts to "get ahead" for thispretty child's sake. And meantime, if she liked to think she washelping, by such work as those dainty little hands could do, he waswilling to humor her.

  Beside all this, Zeb didn't believe her story. He still thought she hadrun away from a well-to-do home; and he believed it was because of anunloving stepmother.

  But he was not minded to worry the child further with questions at thepresent time, and it was part of his nature calmly to awaitdevelopments.

  "Let it go at that, Mother," he advised. "Take Jessiky as yourmaid-of-all-work, on trial,"--he smiled at his wife over Marjorie'sbowed head,--"an' ef she's a good little worker, we'll keep her fer thepresent."

  "My stars!" said Mrs. Geary, and then sat in helpless contemplation ofthese 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,--sortof prettier."

  "We can't spend nothin'," declared Mr. Geary, "'cause we ain't gotnothin' to spend. So don't think we kin, little miss."

  "No," said Marjorie, smiling at him, "but I mean, decorate with wildflowers, 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"decorate
d" with these things in honor of some gay festivity at home.

  Oh, what were they doing there, now? Had they missed her? Would theylook for her? They _never_ could find her tucked away here in thecountry.

  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 wordor murmur of complaint or dissatisfaction. If the forlorn old house weredistasteful to Marjorie, she didn't show it; if her room seemed to heruninhabitable, nobody knew it from her. She ran out to the fields, andreturned 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!"