Quicksilver Sue

by Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards

  CHAPTER VII

  THE MYSTERY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT

  "Mary! Mary Hart! I want to speak to you. Are you alone?"

  "Yes," said Mary, looking up from her mending. "I am just finishingTeddy's stockings; he does tear them so. Come in, Sue."

  "Hush! No; I want you to come out, Mary. It's something veryimportant. Don't say a word to any one, but come down to the arborthis minute. I must see you alone. Oh, I am so excited!"

  The arbor was at the farther end of the Harts' garden--a pleasant,mossy place with seats, and a great vine climbing over it. Mary putaway her basket methodically, and joined Sue, whom she foundtwittering with excitement.

  "Oh, Mary, what do you think? But first you must promise not to tell aliving soul. Honest and true, black and blue! Promise, Mary, or mylips are sealed forever!"

  "I promise," said Mary, without thinking.

  Sue's tremendous secrets were not generally very alarming.

  Sue drew a long breath, looked around her, said "Hush!" two or threetimes, and began:

  "Isn't it perfectly splendid, Mary? The circus is coming to Chester onthe 24th, and Clarice and I are going. It is going to be the greatestshow in the world; the paper says so; and I've seen the pictures, andthey are simply glorious. Isn't it fine? Clarice has asked me to spendthe day with her at the hotel, and Mother says I may; and Clarice isgoing to treat me. Mary, she is the most generous girl that ever livedin this world. You don't half appreciate her, but she is."

  "Who is going to take you to the circus?" asked practical Mary. "Mr.Packard?"

  "Hush! No. That is the exciting part of it. We are going alone, justby ourselves."

  "Sue! You cannot! Go up to Chester alone--just you two girls?"

  "Why not? Clarice is much older than I, you know, Mary. Clarice isfifteen, and she says it is perfectly absurd for us to be such babiesas we are. She says that in New York girls of our age wear dressesalmost full length, and put up their hair, and--and all kinds ofthings. She says it's just because we live down East here that we areso countrified. And she knows all about going to places, and she haslots of money, and--and so--oh, Mary, isn't it exciting?"

  "What does your mother say?" asked Mary, slowly. "Is she willing,Sue?"

  "I am not going to tell her!" said Sue.

  Her tone was defiant, but she colored high, and did not look at Maryas she spoke.

  "You are not--going--to tell your mother?" repeated Mary, in dismay."Oh, Sue!"

  "Now, hush, hush, Mary Hart, and listen to me! Clarice says what's theuse? She says it would only worry Mother, and I ought not to worryher when she is so delicate. She says she thinks it is a great mistakefor girls to keep running to their mothers about everything when theyare as big as we are. She _never_ does, she says--well, it's her aunt,but that makes no difference, she says; and she is fifteen, you know.Besides, my mother is very different from yours; you know she is,Mary. I suppose I _should_ want to tell things to your mother if shewas mine. But you know perfectly well how Mamma is; she never seems tocare, and it only bothers her and makes her head ache."

  "Sue, how can you talk so? Your mother is ill so much of the time, ofcourse she can't--can't be like my Mammy, I suppose."

  Mary faltered a little as she said this. She had often wished thatMrs. Penrose would take more interest in Sue's daily life, but shefelt that this was very improper talk.

  "I don't think you ought to talk so, Sue!" she said stoutly. "I amsure you ought not. I think Clarice Packard has a very bad influenceover you, and I wish she had never come here."

  "Clarice says you are jealous, Mary, and that you try to make troublebetween her and me. I don't believe that; but you have _no_imagination, and you cannot appreciate Clarice. If you knew what shehas done for me--how she has opened my eyes."

  Sue's vivid face deepened into tragedy. "Mary, I believe I will tellyou, after all. I didn't mean to,--Clarice warned me not to,--but Iwill. Mary, there is a mystery in my life. Hush! don't speak--don'tsay a word! I am a foundling!"

  If Mary had been less amazed and distressed, she must have laughedaloud. Sue, in her brown holland frock, her pretty hair curling roundher face, her eyes shining with excitement, was the very image of hermother. As it was, Mary could only gasp, and gaze round-eyed.

  "I am! I am sure of it!" Sue hurried on. "It explains everything,Mary: Mamma's not caring more, and my feeling the way I do, andeverything. Clarice says she is sure it must be so. She knows a girl,the most beautiful girl she ever saw, and she never knew it till shegrew up, because they were so fond of her; but she was left on theirdoor-step in a wicker basket lined with pink satin, and a note pinnedto her clothes saying that her parents were English noblemen, but theynever would acknowledge her because she wasn't a boy. And so! And youknow I have always felt that there was _something wrong_, Mary Hart,and that I was not like other children; you know I have!"

  "I know you have often talked very foolishly," said Mary, "but I neverheard you say anything wicked before. Sue, this is downright wicked,and ridiculous and absurd besides. I never heard such nonsense in mylife, and I don't want to hear any more of it."

  Both girls had risen to their feet, and stood facing each other. Marywas flushed with distress and vexation; but Sue had turned very pale.

  "Very well!" she said, after a pause. "I see Clarice is right. Youhave a mean, jealous spirit, Mary. I thought I could tell the--thegreat thing of my life, to my most intimate friend,--for you _have_been my most intimate friend,--and you would understand; but youdon't. You never have understood me; Clarice has said so from thebeginning, and now I know she is right. At least, I have _one_ friendwho can feel for me. Good-by, Mary--forever!"

  "Oh, Sue!" cried Mary, wanting to laugh and cry together. But Sue wasgone, dashing through the garden at tempest speed, and flinging thegate to behind her with a crash.

  Mary went into the house, and cried till she could not see. But therewere no tears for Sue. She ran up to her room, and locked the door.Then, after looking carefully around, she drew out from under the bedan old brown leather writing-desk, produced a key that hung by aribbon round her neck, unlocked the desk, and took out a faded redmorocco blank-book. It had once been an account-book, and had belongedto her grandfather; the great thing about it was that it had a lockand key! Opening it, Sue found a blank page, and flinging herselfover the table, began to write furiously:

  "Mary and I have parted--parted forever. She was my dearest uponearth, but I know her no more. Her name is Hart, but she has none, orat least it is of marble. I am very unhappy, a poor foundling, withbut one friend in the world. I sit alone in my gloomy garet." (The sunwas pouring in at the window, but Sue did not see it.) "My tears blotthe page as I write." (She tried to squeeze out a tear, failed, andhurried on.) "My affecktions are blited, but I am proud, and theyshall see that I don't care one bit how mean they are. I am of nobleblood, I feel it corsing in my viens, and I shouldn't wonder a bit ifI were a princess. And if I die young, Mary Hart can come and shedtears on my moniment and be sorry she acted so."

  Meantime, in the room below, little Lily was saying: "Mamma, I wish Ihad some one to play with. Couldn't you get me another sister, aboutmy age? Sue says she is too old to play with me!" And Mrs. Penrose wassighing, and wondering again why her elder child was not thecomfort to her that Mary Hart was to her mother.

  "'MARY AND I HAVE PARTED--PARTED FOREVER.'"]

  The days that followed were sad ones for Mary. The intimacy betweenher and Sue had been so close that they had never felt the need ofother friends; and, indeed, in their small neighborhood it happenedthat there were no pleasant girls of their own age. It had not seemedpossible that anything could ever come between her and Sue. They lovedto say that they were two halves, and only together made a whole. Nowit was bitter to see Sue pass by on the other side of the home streetwith averted eyes and head held high. Mary tried to greet her asusual; for had they not said a hundred times how silly it was forgirls to quarrel, and what spectacles they made of themselves behavingli
ke babies?

  But it was of no use. The breach was complete; and Sue refused tospeak to Mary, or even to recognize her, and had only the most frigidlittle nod for her brothers. Many a time did Mary curl up for comfortin her mother's lap, and rest her head on her shoulder, and tell herhow it hurt, and ask what she should do, and how she should livewithout her friend. She never failed to find comfort; and always,after a good little talk, there was something that Mrs. Hartparticularly wanted done, and that Mary could help her so much with;and Mary found that there is no balm like work for a sore heart.

  One day Mrs. Hart said: "Mary, how would you like to ask little Lilyto come and spend the afternoon with you? Mrs. Penrose is really veryfar from well, and Sue seems to be entirely absorbed. It would be akind thing to do, daughter."

  So Lily came; and in making her happy Mary forgot the sore spot in herown heart. From that day the two were a good deal together. BesideSue's glancing brightness Lily had seemed rather a dull child; orperhaps it was merely that Mary had no thought to give her, and feltwith Sue that children were in the way when one wanted to talkseriously. But in Mary's companionship the child expanded like aflower. She was so happy, so easily pleased. It was delightful to seeher face light up at sight of Mary. And Mary determined that, comewhat might, she and Lily would always be friends. "And, Lily," shewould whisper, "if--no! _when_ we get our Sue back again, won't she besurprised to see how much you have learned, and how many of our playsyou know? And there will be three of us then, Lily."

  And Lily would smile and dimple, and look almost a little likeSue--almost!

  The boys, too, were a great comfort in those days. Never had Tom beenso considerate, so thoughtful. Hardly a day passed but he would wantMary to play or walk or fish with him. She had never, it seemed, seenso much of Tom before, though he had always been the dearest boy inthe world--except Teddy.

  "Oh!" she cried one day, when Tom, after an hour's patient search,found the silver thimble that she had carelessly dropped in theorchard--"oh, it _is_ good to have a brother Tom. I don't see whatgirls do who have none."

  "It's pretty nice to have a sister Mary," said Tom, shyly; he wasalways shy when there was any question of feeling. "Do you know,Ballast--do you know, I've never had so much sister Mary as I've beenhaving lately. Of course it's a great shame about Sue, and I miss herno end, and all that--but it's nice to have such a lot of you, dear."

  Sister and brother exchanged a silent hug that meant a good deal, andMary inwardly resolved that, come what might, Tom should alwayshereafter have all the sister Mary he wanted.

  "And it's simply no end for Lily," Tom added. "Lily has never had afair chance, you know, Mary."

  "Lily is a very nice little girl," said Teddy, with kindcondescension. "There's a great deal more in Lily than people think.Mary, if you are going over there, you might take her thesehorse-chestnuts. She likes the milky ones, before they turn brown."

  "Take them yourself, Master Teddy!" said Mary, laughing. "You knowit's what you want to do. Bring her over, and we'll go and play in theorchard, all four of us. We'll play 'Wolf,' if you like."

  "Oh, no!" cried Teddy. "Let's play 'Indian'; let's play 'The Last ofthe Mo's.' We haven't played that for ever and ever so long."

  "Lily doesn't know 'The Last of the Mohicans,'" said Mary. "She hasnever read it. I'll read it to her, I think. We might begin the nextrainy day, boys, and all read together."

  "Hooray!" said both boys.

  "I can be making my new net," said Tom.

  "And I can work on my boat," said Teddy.

  "And I have about six dozen things to make for Christmas!" said Mary,laughing. "Who is to do the reading, I should like to know?"

  "Oh, Mammy will read it to us."

  "All right! Hurrah for Mammy! Of course she will."

  "But that is no reason why we should not play 'The Last of the Mo's'now," resumed Tom. "We can tell Lily enough, as we go along, to showher what it's like, and of course she wouldn't take an important part,anyway--just a squaw or an odd brave. Cut along, Teddy, and bring thekid over."

  Lily came hurrying back with Teddy; and the four stood for a momenttogether by the front door, laughing and chatting, and giving out theparts for the game. They had never played it before without Sue. Marywould rather not have played it now, but that seemed no reason why theboys should not have their favorite game, and no doubt Tom could playUncas very well--though, of course, not _as_ well, even if he was aboy.

  Tom was just striking an attitude and brandishing an imaginarytomahawk, when, on the opposite side of the street, Sue came along,arm in arm, as usual, with Clarice Packard. The Hart children lookedin dismay. Was this their Sue? Something was wrong with her hair. Itwas rolled up high over her forehead, and bobbed up into a short cuebehind. Something was wrong with her feet; at least, so it seemed fromthe way she walked, mincing on her toes. And she had a spotted veilon, and she carried a parasol. Was this their Quicksilver Sue? Couldit be?

  As they passed, Clarice looked across the way and bowed a triumphantlittle bow; then tittered rudely, and whispered something in hercompanion's ear. Sue held her head high, and was walking past lookingstraight before her, as she always did now, when suddenly it seemed asif some feeling took hold upon her, stronger than her own will. Sheturned her head involuntarily, and looked at the group standing on thefamiliar door-step. A wave of color swept over her face; the tearsrushed into her eyes. For a moment she seemed to waver, almost to swaytoward them; then resolutely she turned her head away again, andwalked on.

  "Mary," said Tom, "do you know what?"

  "No, Tom. I don't know this particular 'what.' I know--what you sawjust now." And poor Mary looked as if the heart for play was cleangone out of her.

  "Well, I'll tell you. Our Sue has had just about enough of her newtreasure. I'll bet my new fishing-line that she would give all herbest boots to come and play 'Last of the Mo's' with us in theorchard."