Part 7 (1/2)
”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 s.h.i.+ning 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.”