Chapter XII: A Brave Confession

THE evening arrived, and so did Margerie's mother. Oh, what joy and comfort and "home" it was to nestle once more in her dear arms! Margerie felt as if nothing could go wrong with her any more.

"But my little girl looks pale," said the younger Mrs. Grace, anxiously, when the first flush of joy had died from the child's cheek. "Hasn't she been quite as well as usual?"

"Her conscience has been troubling her, I've no doubt," replied grandma gruffly. "Children who behave as she has been doing ought not to look well."

"Why, what is this, then?" questioned the mother, in surprise.

But Margerie cuddled so confidingly to her side, that in spite of the old lady's words, she felt sure no serious fault was to be revealed.

"I will tell you, and then you can judge for yourself," replied grandma, and commenced her tale.

In the midst of it, however, just as she was dwelling on "the repeated falsehoods" which she laid to Margerie's charge, the little girl, who leaning against her mother's side was also watching the front gate, suddenly sprang forward.

"Here he is! Here's Ned!" she excitedly cried, and ran out of the room.

Mother and grandmother were equally at a loss to account for her action. Looking out of the window they beheld a ragged boy coming up the long path. His boots were odd ones, his coat much too large, and his face, though evidently washed for the occasion, revealing sundry streaks and lines of dirt. Notwithstanding these deterrent facts, Margerie went dancing out to meet him, and actually taking him by the hand, led him with manifest delight towards the house.

"Why, Margie my dear, what is the meaning of this?" questioned her mother, following her to the door.

"This is Ned—a boy I know. I'll tell you all about it in a minute, mother dear," answered Margerie, quite rosy with pleasure. "He's come to say—But you'll tell it all yourself, won't you, Ned?"

Mrs. Grace, senior, had by this time joined her daughter-in-law in the porch.

Ned doffed his shabby cap, made an awkward bow, and remained dumb.

"What is it? What do you want, my boy?" asked Margerie's mother.

Ned bowed again and shifted from one leg to the other. "I'm very sorry, mum," he burst out at length, with a tremendous effort. "But—but—but—"

"Go on, Ned. Mother's here," said Margie encouragingly.

"I took that pie, and the roll, and—and some bread 'n cheese. It wasn't her at all. There!"

This startling announcement of course required explanation. The soft spring rain was once more beginning to fall, so the old lady, though with evident reluctance, asked the boy to come inside. Then by means of plying him with questions, which he answered in a brief and as some would have thought sullen fashion, the whole story came out as we already know it, including the revelation of Margie's self-denial.

The little girl, glancing into her grandmother's face at this point, saw again that softened look which she had beheld on it only once before. She went to her side.

"Don't send him to prison, grandma, dear," she said coaxingly. "'Please' don't. He was dreadfully hungry, else he wouldn't have done it—would you, Ned? See how thin he is," she added in a whisper.

"But how is it you are in this condition, my boy?" asked the younger Mrs. Grace. "Have you no friends?"

"Not that I know of," answered Ned. "My mother died before I could remember her, and my father went abroad to California 'bout four years ago. I was a little chap of seven, and he left me with a woman to mind. I know he paid her, because the letters used to come. But she drank awful. Father didn't know that when he left me. After about a year, he left off sending the money and then she just did carry on! Well, I tell you, she made the place so hot for me I bolted, and came, somehow or other, up to London, and I've been living how I could ever since. Sometimes I could get a job. I ain't ever been so low as this before—I mean I never got in a house nor—nor thieved!"

Mrs. Grace, senior, made no remark whatever upon this recital; indeed she had scarcely spoken a word throughout the whole episode. But the other listener's motherly heart was touched. She put her hand in her pocket, and bringing out a shilling which she could ill enough spare, she gave it to the astonished boy, saying:

"There, get yourself a good supper and a night's lodging. And to-morrow come to my house—Briar Cottage, King's Road. Perhaps I may be able to find you some better clothes."

With many bows and scrapes, but stammered thanks, Ned took his leave, genuinely amazed to find that the assistance of a police-constable had never once been suggested.

"Isn't he a 'poor' boy?" said Margerie, as he shuffled down the garden. "You don't mind my giving him bits of my bread-and-butter, do you, mother dear?"

Mrs. Grace's answer was a tender kiss.

But grandma said, though with only a mild assumption of her usual sternness: "It would have been much better if, instead of binding herself to secrecy, Margerie had told the whole truth at first."

"Well, yes," said Margerie's mother. But she could not lose sight of the fact that when her little girl had been open and candid, she was not believed.

That night, when our little maid having eaten her supper slipped off her chair with her usual "Good-night, grandma," the latter said: "Come to me, Margerie."

She readily obeyed, and went close to her grandmother's knee.

The old lady took her hand, and for several minutes sat regarding her in silence.

Margerie standing silent, too, and wondering.

Presently grandma began to smile—really smile—though something that looked like moisture was glittering in her hard black eyes.

Then Margerie smiled back, a dear little cloudless confiding smile, with a dimple in it.

"Will you kiss me, Margerie?" asked the old lady.

The words had scarcely passed her lips when she experienced the unwonted sensation of a pair of soft arms clasping round her neck, and the pressure as of warm, live velvet against her withered cheek.

Long after Margerie was in bed and asleep, the sweet unaccustomed feeling of those childish arms and lips clung to her grandmother strangely. It was this, probably, joined to another remarkable experience which that evening had brought, which caused the latter to do something the like of which she had not done for many, many years.

Taking a candle in her hand, she unlocked one of the closed doors, and entered the chamber within. It was well furnished, but every article was covered to keep it from the dust. Thus had it stood for ten years past; since first Mrs. Grace, unable to find a tenant for the house at the rent she was asking—for it was her own—had come to live in it herself. It was characteristic of the old lady that she would rather do this at a considerable loss than lower her demand.

She next unlocked an old-fashioned bureau, and after some searching, drew forth from one of its recesses a small packet, which she carried back with her into the sitting-room. Here, having lit another candle—for she was too conservative in her notions to tolerate either gas or lamp—she proceeded to untie the same, and examine the contents.

These were chiefly letters, the paper of which had grown yellow with age and the ink brown. They were written in an unformed childish hand. Mrs. Grace did not pause to read them, merely glancing at each one as she turned it over in her search for something else. Yet her spectacles required wiping much more frequently than was their wont.

Presently, she came upon an envelope that appeared to cover an inclosure somewhat stiffer and heavier than the others, and a sound of satisfaction broke from her lips. Once more polishing her glasses she drew forth a carte-de-visite, and bringing both the candles quite close to her head, proceeded to examine it narrowly by their concentrated light.

It was the faded photograph of a little boy, attired in the baggy knickerbockers which were worn when that style of suit first came into fashion. He was a slender, rather delicate-looking child, with large, dark, eager eyes, and as the old lady gazed at the picture she murmured: "Strange, strange! It 'is' most remarkable. Stupid that I was, not to ask his name! But I could not bring myself to do it before 'her;' I was afraid—but there! I daresay it is nothing in the world but an accidental resemblance—nothing at all. One may meet with such instances every day."