“You poor little girl!” said her mother softly, gathering Marjorie’s hand into her own frail one and squeezing it gently. “You poor little abandoned baby!”
“No, Mother, don’t say that!” pleaded Marjorie. “I was not abandoned, I was sort of cheated away from you, wasn’t I? The letter makes it very plain that you were sick, and under great strain of worry about Father and my twin sister, and you were too sick to realize what you were doing, and goaded into doing it. At least that was what I read between the lines.”
“Yes,” said her mother, “they came to me when I was too weak to understand it all. They told me your father would not live unless he had certain care and attention. A specialist to watch over him and a year or two in a quiet outdoor place where he would be absolutely free from worry. They said your little sister could not live, or at least she would be a cripple if she didn’t have a certain difficult operation.”
“And wasn’t it true, Mother?” Marjorie was wide-eyed with consternation.
“Partly,” said the mother wearily, as if it were something that she had gone over and over so many times that it hurt her to remember. “But there would have been some other way. Oh, there would have been something else we could have done.”
“But who told you all this, Mother? Not the doctor, surely?”
“No, it was Mr. Wetherill. He came to see me several times, till I didn’t know what to do. He kept telling me how his wife loved you and would care for you as her own, and how he would see that Betty had every care that science could give her, and that your father should have a beautiful place to recuperate in and all he needed. And he was as good as his word, too. He did all that, lavished things upon us until we had to protest. He seemed to think that made up for the other. And then the worst of all was that he gave me the impression that your father wanted me to sign the papers, when all the time he was too sick even to be told that you and Betty were born, though I didn’t know that yet. Your father did not know anything about the transaction until it was too late to stop it. He was so sick for months that I did not dare tell him what I had done, and so it wore upon me all the heavier. And then when your father got better and I told him, he was brokenhearted. It seemed to me that he would never smile again. He felt that it was a personal disgrace, even though he hadn’t done it himself, nor known about it, and as soon as he was able to travel he went to see Mr. Wetherill and tried to get you back. But Mr. Wetherill was very determined. He had the papers all iron-clad. We had nothing to go on. We had given you up. He even had the doctor’s statement that your father was not in condition to give consent, and I had the sole authority. He had managed it with witnesses and clever questions he had asked in their presence, so that we could do nothing. Of course, it might have been different if we had had money and influence.”
The mother sighed deeply, and the quiet tears flowed down.
“There, Mother dear,” soothed Marjorie, “it doesn’t matter now, does it? It’s all over, and we are together at last and understand each other.”
“But I feel it was all my fault,” wailed the mother. “Sometimes I wake up from dreaming that I am doing it all over again, and then I scream out. I felt as if I had done something utterly inhuman!”
“There, now, Mother, you are getting all worked up again, and you promised me you wouldn’t if I called Marjorie up here,” the father said.
“I know,” said the mother again, trying to bring out a trembling little sigh.
“Well, Mother,” said Marjorie gently, “I’m terribly sorry you’ve had to suffer so many years. If I knew any way, I would so gladly take it to wipe out the memory of all this from your mind, but since we can’t, suppose we just make the rest of the years so bright they will dim the others out of sight? You see, I was spared all that suffering. I longed to know about you, of course, but I was only a child, and I was happy. They were very good to me. I didn’t suffer in any way. But it is awful to me to know that you did. Why can’t we pretend it never happened? Why can’t we just go on from here?”
The mother looked up with a little trembling smile on her lips as if she dared not quite fling off her burden.
“And you don’t blame me?”
“No, I don’t blame you, dearest Mother. And you mustn’t blame the other mother, either, because I don’t think she ever knew the whole thing, nor had even the slightest realization that you wanted me until you came to see her. I think Mr. Wetherill always protected her from everything. He adored her, and got her anything she asked for. He couldn’t bear to say no to her in anything. I suppose he didn’t scruple to do anything to please her. It was selfish of her, of course, to want me who belonged to another, when there were so many other little babies in the world who had nobody to care. But I don’t believe she realized until just before she died that she was selfish. So, Mother, let’s forgive her and forget all about the pain, and let’s have beautiful times together. Will you?”
“You mean,” said the mother anxiously, “that you are willing to come down to being our child? That you are not ashamed of us?”
“Oh, Mother! Of course not. Of course I’m your child.”
“But you have a different name from ours, and a different position. A position that you would not have had as our child.”
“I can change my name,” said Marjorie eagerly. “There is no one to be hurt by my doing it.”
“No, my dear, you could not legally do that,” said her father gravely. “I think it might affect your inheritance, and that would not be right. That is a small matter, of course. Neither your mother nor I would worry about your name. What Mother wants is merely to know if you really love us and are willing to forgive us for having allowed you to be put out of our lives. I am not saying it was not an advantage to you, at least a worldly advantage, but that does not make our act any less questionable.”
“Oh, Father, I do forgive, if there is anything to forgive, and I do love and honor you, and want to be your child. And as for name and inheritance, why all I care for the inheritance is to use it for you all, to make it more easy and comfortable. And Mrs. Wetherill practically suggested that in her last word to me.”
“But, my dear, we can’t live on your money.”
“Why not, Father? If I had been your child in the home all these years, wouldn’t I have been living on yours? And now that I have come back to you, I have no other way to make up for the lost years except through the money. Why can’t we just be glad in it and call it ours?”
“My dear, a man must provide for his family.”
“That’s all right, Father, when you get well and are able to do it, but just now I am able, and I’m going to enjoy getting and doing things for you all more than anything I ever did in my life. Please, dear Father! But now, don’t you think Mother is getting a little tired? She looks to me as if she needed to go to sleep right away. Suppose you tell her it’s all right. It will be, you know, and we can settle all these details afterward. We’re just all a family together. If Betty had a legacy left to her, you wouldn’t hesitate to let her put the family on its feet, would you? Or Ted? And wouldn’t they want to right away? Well, then, why not take me clear into the family and trust me just the same as you would them? I’m doing the very thing I want to do with my money, and it’s giving me more pleasure than if I were to buy an airplane and a yacht and three or four estates in different parts of the world, so why not enjoy it with me? Besides, what I have spent so far wouldn’t even make a nick in the estate that has been left me, so why worry? Come, Father, kiss Mother and tell her it’s all right and she positively needn’t worry another bit.”
The father stooped over and kissed his wife.
“She is right,” he said tenderly. “She’s our child, and it’s all forgotten, and it’s all right, and you’re not to worry again, ever, anymore. Will you cast it all away?”
“Oh, yes, I will.”
“And will you go to sleep?”
She nodded, dropped happily back on her pillow, and closed her
eyes.
So Marjorie slipped away with a vision of her father sitting by the bed holding her mother’s hand, a long, loving look and smile passing between them.
“Aren’t they sweet?” she said as she came down misty-eyed to where Betty was putting a clean tablecloth on the table.
Betty looked up admiringly.
“I’m so glad you can see that!”
“Why, did you think I wouldn’t?”
“Well, you weren’t brought up with them,” she said evasively.
Marjorie studied her a minute, and then she said, “It doesn’t take long to discover they are sweet. But I suppose Ted’s gone, hasn’t he?”
“No, he’s outside getting that ice off the step. He’s afraid somebody will fall. He’s been waiting for you. I think he’s keen on having you go with him. I shouldn’t wonder if he wants to show you where we used to live.”
“Oh, is the church near where we used to live?” asked Marjorie, and knew not that she had said “we.”
Betty gave her a quick look and then said with satisfaction, “Yes.”
“Well, I’d like to go in the daytime so I can see it. But are you sure you don’t want me to stay and take care of the children?”
“Mercy, no. They’re used to taking care of themselves, and now that Bonnie’s up again, Sunny is no trouble at all. She invents things to keep him happy. Go on. Dinner won’t be ready till after you get back, and you can help clear away if lack of work troubles your conscience.”
So Marjorie and her brother started off to church.
Ted wasn’t much dressed up. He hadn’t anything to dress up in. But he had brushed his clothes spic and span, had combed his red curls to a shining polished mahogany, had shined his old shoes, and he was scrupulously clean. Marjorie secretly admired his ease of manner and walk in spite of his clothes, though she could see he was conscious of his shabbiness, eyeing her handsome fur coat, and finally remarking, “I guess you’ll be ashamed of me, but they don’t mind clothes where we’re going.”
“No,” said Marjorie thoughtfully, “I’m not ashamed of you, I’m proud of you. Things like that are only comparative, anyway, aren’t they? They shouldn’t have any part in going to church.”
Ted eyed her speculatively and finally ventured another question. “I guess you’re saved, aren’t you?”
“Saved?” said Marjorie, altogether startled. The phrase was not common among the young people she knew. “I am a church member. Is that what you mean?”
Ted was visibly embarrassed.
“No,” he said, “that doesn’t getcha anywhere in being saved. That’s what comes afterward. It’s the sorta sign for others to see, but everybody who joins church isn’t saved, by a long shot.”
Marjorie gave him another keen look. What kind of a place was this church to which he was taking her? Obviously not an ordinary church. People didn’t talk that way in the church to which the Wetherills belonged. They attended church and were very faithful in contributing to its support, but they didn’t ask each other if they were saved.
“You haveta be born again, you know.”
She gave him another keen look, and as if he were answering the question in her eyes, he said, “You believe, you know, that’s how you get to be born again. That’s how you get saved. You just believe.”
“Believe?” said Marjorie inquiringly. She didn’t say “believe what?” But her tone said it. So he answered.
“Believe that Jesus is the Son of God and died to take our sins upon Himself and suffer the penalty.” He explained it gravely, as if he had done it before and understood thoroughly what it meant.
“Why, I guess I believe that,” said Marjorie “I’ve never really thought much about it, but I believe it, of course. It’s all in the Bible, isn’t it? I believe the Bible. I was taught to believe that when I was very young, though I’m not sure I know much about it.”
“Gee, it’s great when you get ta studying it!” said Ted.
Marjorie looked at him in surprise.
“Have you studied it?”
“Sure! We had Bible classes twice a week at the Brentwood chapel. Gosh, I was sorry to move away! It’s a whole lot harder to live the Christian life when you can’t go where there are a lot of believers. Now I can’t go any time except Sunday, and I certainly do miss those classes.”
“You must have had a good teacher,” said Marjorie with wonder.
“I’ll say he was! He was swell! He seemed ta know just what you’d been going through that day and how to show you where you’d got off the track, see? Of course, we have him Sundays, too, but I certainly do miss the regular weekday classes. I tried for a while to keep up, but when you get up at four o’clock and deliver papers, and then work all day, you don’t seem to have much brains for study at night. But I certainly do miss it.”
“Who is this teacher?”
“Gideon Reaver’s his name. He’s just a young fella, only been out of seminary a little over a year, but he certainly knows his Bible. He can preach all around any preacher I ever heard before, even most of the big guns that come to the chapel now and then because they know him. He doesn’t preach anyway, he just talks and tells us what the Bible means. He’s a great big fellow, six feet. And a pair of shoulders! Oh, boy! He’s got a nice face, too. The girls all go crazy over him, but he doesn’t seem to know it. He just looks right over them and smiles and goes on talking, and by and by they settle down and listen and get sensible. The fellows like him, too. Oh, boy, do they like him! And how! But you’ll hear him. You’ll see what he’s like.”
“Well, I hope I shall be able to keep from going crazy over him.” Marjorie smiled.
Ted turned red.
“Oh, you’re not like that. You’re sensible! But he’s a prince, you know. I’m not blaming ’em for going crazy over him. If I was a girl I might do it myself.”
“Did Betty go to church with you when you lived in Brentwood?” asked Marjorie.
Ted’s face darkened.
“No!” he said shortly. “She wouldn’t go. She said she had no time for church. She was all taken up with a poor fish in the office where she worked. He useta come out in a secondhand roadster and take her places. He made me sick. Had one of those little misplaced eyebrows on his upper lip, thought he was smart, could smoke more cigarettes in an hour than anybody I ever heard of, and wore his hat way off on the back of his head like he was bored with the world and thought he was too good to associate with common people. He useta call me, ‘M’lad!’ just like that, as though he thought he was some prince and I was to wait on him. I didn’t stick around much when he came here. But he put Betts off the notion of going to church entirely. I couldn’t get her near it. And then, even if she’d wanted to go, she wouldn’t attend a plain little chapel. She wanted some swell church where they had high-hats and swell music.”
“Then she doesn’t know Gideon Reaver.”
“No, she wouldn’t be introduced one day when I brought him home. She said she didn’t care to know preachers, they would bore her, and it might be embarrassing to have him hanging around. Oh, she makes me sick, sometimes.”
“I guess she’s had a rather hard time,” suggested Marjorie gently.
“Sure she has! We’ve all had a hard time. And she’s been a good scout, worked like everything to take care of Mother and Father, and all that, but still—sometimes she makes me sick.”
“Is she what you called saved?” Marjorie asked hesitantly.
“Not she!” said her brother sorrowfully. “She won’t let me talk to her, and she won’t go anywhere where she can hear the truth. She says she doesn’t believe in a God who would let us suffer the way we have! I try to tell her about what the Bible says, but she won’t listen.
“There!” He suddenly broke off and his voice grew jubilant. “There’s Brentwood now! See it up there on the hill? And that’s our house, that long, low stone house with the white pillars on the porch. Isn’t that some swell location? And there! Upon my word, if th
ere doesn’t come Gideon Reaver now! He must have been up on the hill visiting some sick person. Gosh, that’s great! Now I can introduce you to him before the service!”
Then Marjorie looked up to see a tall, finely-built young man coming toward her with astonishingly wonderful eyes that seemed to have seen further into life than most men see, yet they had a deep, sweet, settled peace in them. She wondered if it could be real. She had never seen a young man who had that look.
Chapter 10
Meantime, back on Aster Street, Betty was having a time of her own.
Bud had found a forlorn little alley cat shivering with the cold, rescued her from a ring of small dogs who were threatening her worthless life, and brought her into the house. Her fur was caked with mud and ice, with a tinting of blood from her recent fight, and altogether she was a pitiful object. He hoped, faintly, to persuade Betty to take an interest in her, though he was pretty sure she wouldn’t. Anyway, he meant to sneak some food out for her.
When he found that Betty had gone upstairs to make the beds, it seemed to him an excellent chance to carry out his purposes, so with one free arm he filled the dishpan with nice warm water, took the dish soap, and plunged the poor astonished kitten into a lovely warm bath.
“There, kitty, there, poor pussy!” he said tenderly, holding the struggling frantic creature firmly, and dousing her underwater in his efforts. “There, nice little cat! Can’t you see you gotta be clean? Stop your scratching, you poor fish, you! Didn’t I rescue you from the dogs? You aren’t a bit grateful. But you gotta be clean. Don’t you understand? After I get you clean I’ll give you some nice dinner. Nice warm milk. Won’t that be nice, kitty?”
Appeared on the scene Bonnie, wide-eyed and eager.
“Oh, Buddie, what you got? Where d’you get that cat?”
“Shh!” warned Bud, in the midst of his struggles, mingling his own life’s blood with that of the dirty little cat. “Ain’t you got any sense at all, Bonnie Gay? Don’tcha know ya mustn’t make a noise an’ wake Mother? Don’tcha know I gotta get this cat clean before Betty gets down here?”
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