CHAPTER XVIII
HONEST CONFESSION
"I want to own up, Mother," said King, as Mrs. Maynard came into theroom, just before dinner time.
"Well, King, what have you been doing now?"
Mrs. Maynard's face expressed a humorous sort of resignation, for she wasaccustomed to these confessions.
"Well, you see, Mothery, we had the Jinks Club here to-day."
King's voice was very wheedlesome, and he had his arm round his mother'sneck, for he well knew her affection for her only son often overcame herduty of discipline.
"And the Jinksies cut up some awful piece of mischief,--is that it?"
"Yes, Mother; but it's a truly awful one this time, and I'm the one toblame."
"No, you're not!" broke in Marjorie; "at least, not entirely. I proposedthe game."
"Well," said Mrs. Maynard, "before you quarrel for the honor of thisdreadful deed, suppose you tell me what it is."
For answer, King dragged the big picture out from behind the sofa, andMrs. Maynard's smile changed to a look of real dismay.
"Oh, King!" she said; "that's your father's favorite engraving!"
"Yes'm, I know it. That's the awfullest part of it. But, Mother, it wasan accident."
"Ah, yes, but an accident that ought not to have happened. It was anaccident brought about by your own wrong-doing. What possessed you totake that great picture down from the wall, and _why_ did you splash inkon it?"
So then all the children together told the whole story of the auctiongame.
"But it was lots of fun!" Marjorie wound up, with great enthusiasm."Delight is grand to play games with. She acts just like a grown-up lady.And Flip Henderson is funny too."
"But Midget," said her mother, "I can't let you go on with this JinksClub of yours, if you're always going to spoil things."
"No, of course not. But, Mother, I don't think it will happen again. Andanyway, next time we're going to meet at Delight's."
"That doesn't help matters any, my child. I'd rather you'd spoil mythings than Mrs. Spencer's,--if spoiling must be done. Well, the case istoo serious for me. I'll leave the whole matter to your father,--I hearhim coming up the steps now."
Soon Mr. Maynard entered the room, and found his whole family groupedround the ruined picture.
"Wowly--wow-wow!" he exclaimed. "Has there been an earthquake? Fornothing else could wreck my pet picture like that!"
"No, Father," said King; "it wasn't an earthquake. I did it,--mostly. Wewere playing auction, and my foot got tangled up in the picture wire, andthe inkstand upset, and smashed the glass, and--and I'm awful sorry."
King was too big a boy to cry, but there was a lump in his throat, as hesaw his father's look of real regret at the loss of his valued picture.
"Tell me all about it, son. Was it mischief?"
"I'm afraid it was. But we took all the things in the room to playauction with, and somehow I took that down from the wall withoutthinking. And, of course, I didn't know it was going to get broken."
"No, King; but if you had stopped to think, you would have known that it_might_ get broken?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then it would have been wiser and kinder to leave it upon the wall, outof harm's way?"
"Yes, Father; much better. I didn't think. Oh,--I know that's no excuse,but that's,--well, it's the reason."
"And a very poor reason, my boy. The worthwhile man is the man who thinksin time. Thinking afterward doesn't mend broken things,--or take outinkstains. Of course, the broken glass is a mere trifle, that could havebeen easily replaced. But the engraving itself is ruined by the ink."
"Couldn't it be restored?" asked King, hopefully. He was not quitecertain what "restored" meant, but he knew his father had had it done tosome pictures.
Mr. Maynard smiled. "No, King, a paper engraving cannot be restored. Whatis that number pasted on it for?"
"We numbered all the things, so as to make it like a real auction," saidMarjorie.
Mr. Maynard glanced round the room.
"You rascally children!" he cried; "if you haven't stuck papers on allthe vases and bric-a-brac in the room! And on this tree-calf Tennyson, asI live! Oh, my little Maynards! Did anybody ever have such a brood asyou?"
Mr. Maynard dropped his head in his hands in apparent despair, but thechildren caught the amused note in his voice, and the twinkle in his eye,as he glanced at his wife.
"Well, here you are!" he said, as he raised his head again, "for apunishment you must get all those numbers off without injury to thethings they're pasted on. This will mean much care and patience, for youmust not use water on books or anything that dampness will harm. Thosemust be picked off in tiny bits with a sharp penknife."
"Oh, we'll do it, Father!" cried Marjorie, "and we'll be just ascareful!"
"Indeed you must. You've done enough havoc already. As to the picture,King, we'll say no more about it. You're too big a boy now to bepunished; so we'll look upon it as a matter between man and man. I knowyou appreciate how deeply I regret the loss of that picture, and I wellknow how sorry you feel about it yourself. The incident is closed."
Mr. Maynard held out his hand to his son, and as King grasped it he feltthat his father's manly attitude in the matter was a stronger reproof anda more efficacious lesson to him than any definite punishment could be.
After dinner the three children went to work to remove the pastednumbers.
A few, which were on glass vases, or porcelain, or metal ornaments, couldbe removed easily by soaking with a damp cloth; but most of them were onplaster casts, or polished wood, or fine book bindings and required thegreatest care in handling.
When bed-time came the task was not half finished, and Marjorie'sshoulders were aching from close application to the work.
"Sorry for you, kiddies," said Mr. Maynard, as they started for bed, "butif you dance, you must pay the piper. Perhaps a few more evenings willfinish the job, and then we'll forget all about it."
Mr. Maynard, though not harsh, was always firm, and the children wellknew they had the work to do, and must stick patiently at it till it wasfinished.
"Good-night, Father," said King, "and thank you for your confidence inme. I'll try to deserve it hereafter."
"Good-night, my boy. We all have to learn by experience, and when youwant my help, it's yours."
The straightforward glance that passed between father and son meant muchto both, and King went off to bed, feeling that, if not quite a grownman, he was at least a child no longer in his father's estimation.
After the children had gone, Mr. Maynard picked out the most delicate orvaluable of the "auction" goods, and began himself to remove the pastednumbers.
"Partly to help the kiddies," he said to his wife, "and partly because Iknow they'd spoil these things. It's all I can do to manage themsuccessfully myself."
Next morning at breakfast Mrs. Maynard said; "Well, Midget, now you're athome again, what about starting back to school?"
"Oh, Mother!" said Marjorie, looking disconsolate. And then, for she didnot want to be naughty about it, she added: "All right; I s'pose I mustgo, so I will. But as to-day's Friday I can wait till Monday, can't I?"
Mrs. Maynard smiled. "Yes, I think you may till Monday, if you want to.But are you sure you want to?"
"'Deed I _am_ sure!"
"And nothing would make you want to go to-day, instead of waiting tillMonday?"
"No, _ma'am_! no-_thing_!" and Midget actually pounded the table with herknife-handle, so emphatic was she.
"You tell her, Fred," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling at her husband.
"Well, Madcap Mopsy," said her father, "try to bear up under this newmisfortune; your mother and I have planned a plan, and this is it. Howwould you like it, instead of going to school any more,--I mean to MissLawrence,--to go every day to lessons with Delight and Miss Hart?"
Marjorie sat still a minute, trying to take it in. It seemed too good tobe true.
Then dropping her knife and fork, she left
her chair and flew round toher father's place at table.
Seeing the whirlwind coming, Mr. Maynard pushed back his own chair justin time to receive a good-sized burden of delighted humanity that threwitself round his neck and squeezed him tight.
"Oh, Father, Father, Father! do you really mean it? Not go to school anymore at all! And have lessons every day with that lovely Miss Hart, andmy dear Delight? Oh, Father, you're _such_ a duck!"
"There, there, my child! Don't strangle me, or I'll take it all back!"
"You can't now! You've said it! Oh, I'm so glad! Can I start to-day?"
"Oho!" said Mrs. Maynard; "who was it that said _nothing_ could make herwant to go to-day instead of Monday?"
Marjorie giggled. "But who could have dreamed you meant this?" she cried,leaving her father and flying to caress her mother. "Oh, Mumsie, won't itbe lovely! Oh, I am _so_ happy!"
"If not, you're a pretty good imitation of a happy little girl," said herfather; "and now if you'll return to your place and finish yourbreakfast, we'll call it square."
"Square it is, then," said Marjorie, skipping back to her place; "Kit,did you ever hear of anything so lovely!"
"Never," said Kitty, "for you. I'd rather go to school and be with thegirls."
"I didn't mind when Gladys was here, but I've hated it ever since I wasalone. But to study with Miss Hart,--oh, goody! Is she willing, Mother?"
"Of course, I've discussed it with her and with Mrs. Spencer. Indeed,Mrs. Spencer proposed the plan herself, when I was over there yesterday.She and Miss Hart think it will be good for Delight to have some one withher. So, Midge, you must be a good girl, and not teach Delight all sortsof mischief."
"Oh, yes, Mother, I'll be so good you won't know me. Can I start to-day?"
"Yes, if you're sure you want to."
"Want to? I just guess I do!" and Midget danced upstairs to dress for"school."
The plan worked admirably. Miss Hart was not only a skilled teacher, buta most tactful and clever woman, and as she really loved her two littlepupils, she taught them so pleasantly that they learned without drudgery.
As the clock hands neared nine every morning, there were no more longdrawn sighs from Marjorie, but smiles and cheery good-byes, as the littlegirl gaily left the house and skipped across the street.
The daily association, too, brought her into closer friendship withDelight, and the two girls became real chums. Their natures were sodifferent, that they reacted favorably on one another, and under MissHart's gentle and wise guidance the two girls improved in every way.
It was one day in the very last part of February that Midge came home tofind a letter for her on the hall table.
"From Gladys," she cried and tore it open.
"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, "I didn't think! Miss Hart told me neverto open a letter with my finger, but to wait till I could get aletter-opener. Well, it's too late now, I'll remember next time."
She looked ruefully at the untidy edges of the envelope, but pulled theletter out and began to read it.
"DEAR MARJORIE:
"I'm coming to see you, that is, if you want me to. Father has to goEast, and he will leave me at your house while he goes to New York. Iwill get there on Friday and stay four days. I will be glad to see youagain.
"Sincerely yours,
"GLADYS FULTON."
Marjorie smiled at the stiff formal letter, which was the sort Gladysalways wrote, and then she went in search of her mother.
"Gladys is coming on Friday," she announced.
"That's very nice, my dear," said Mrs. Maynard; "you'll be so glad to seeher again, won't you?"
"Yes," said Midget, but she said it slowly, and with a troubled look inher eyes.
"Well, what is it, dear? Tell Mother."
"I don't know exactly,--but somehow I'm not so awfully pleased to haveGladys come. You see, she may not like Delight, and I want them to likeeach other."
"Why do you want them to?"
"_Why_ do I? Mother, what a funny question! Why, I want them to like eachother because I like them both."
"But you don't seem anxious lest Delight won't like Gladys."
"Oh, of course she'll like her! Delight is so sweet and amiable, she'dlike anybody that I like. But Gladys is,--well,--touchy."
"Which do you care more for, dearie?"
"Mothery, that's just what bothers me I'm getting to like Delight betterand better. And that doesn't seem fair to Gladys, for she's my oldfriend, and I wouldn't be unloyal to her for anything. So you see, Idon't know which I like best."
"Well, Marjorie, I'll tell you. In the first place, you mustn't take itso seriously. Friendships among children are very apt to change when onemoves away and another comes. Now both these little girls are your goodfriends, but it stands to reason that the one you're with every dayshould be nearer and dearer than one who lives thousands of miles away.So I want you to enjoy Delight's friendship, and consider her yourdearest friend, if you choose, without feeling that you are disloyal toGladys."
"Could I, Mother?"
"Certainly, dear. That is all quite right. Now, when Gladys comes, for afew days, you must devote yourself especially to her, as she will be yourhouse-guest; and if she and Delight aren't entirely congenial, then youmust exclude Delight while Gladys is here. You may not like to do this,and it may not be necessary, but if it is, then devote yourself toGladys' pleasure and preferences, because it is your duty. To be a goodhostess is an important lesson for any girl or woman to learn, and youare not too young to begin."
"Shall I tell Delight I'm going to do this?"
"Not before Gladys comes. They may admire each other immensely; thenthere will be no occasion to mention it. When is Gladys coming?"
"On Friday. That's only three days off."
"Then we must begin to plan a little for her pleasures. As she will onlybe here four days, we can't do very much. Suppose we have a little partySaturday afternoon, then she can meet all her Rockwell friends."
"Yes, that will be lovely. And I do hope she and Delight will like eachother."
"Why of course they will, Midget. There's no reason why they shouldn't."
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