A secret isn't any pleasure. What's the use of knowing a thing you can't let anybody know you know? If I can't tell soon what I've heard about myself something is liable to happen.
Nearly three months have passed, and I haven't told yet. I'm still holding out, but it's the most awful experience I ever had.
Another idea has come to me, and if I could see Miss Katherine I could tell whether to do it or not. If she don't come soon I will do it, anyhow. I won't be able to help it.
The girls say if I were a darkey they'd think I was seeking. That's because some days I'm so unnatural quiet and stay so much by myself. I do that for safety, fearing otherwise I'd speak.
They don't know what's going on inside of me. If they could see they'd find nothing but quiverings and questions, and if I don't do anything really violent it's all I ask.
Every morning and every night my prayers are just this: "O Lord, help Mary Cary through this day. I'm not asking for to-morrow, it not being here yet. But This Day help me to hold out." And all day long I'm saying under my breath:
"Hold on, Mary Cary, hold on, hold on.
There never was a night that didn't have a dawn.
There never was a road that didn't have an end.
Wait awhile, wait awhile, and then the letter send."
I say that so often to myself that I'm afraid somebody will hear me think it. If that letter isn't sent soon, the answer will be received by a corpse.
I'm never again going to have a secret. It's worse than a tumor or dropsy. Mrs. Penick has a tumor. I've never seen the dropsy, but a secret is more dangerous, for it dries you up. Dropsy has water to it.
We had apple-dumplings for dinner. I sold mine to Lucy Pyle for two cents, and bought a stamp with it. The stamp is for The Letter.
Miss Katherine has come back. Came night before last, but I've been too excited to write anything down. Everything I do is done in dabs these days, and few lines at the time is all I'm equal to.
She looks grand. And oh, what a difference her being here makes! We are children, not just orphans, when she is with us; and it's because she loves us, trusts us, brings our best part to the top that we are different when she is about. The very way she laughs—so clear and hearty—makes you think things aren't so bad, and already they have picked up. Like my primrose does when I give it water, after forgetting it till it is as limp as old Miss Sarah Cone's crêpe veil.
I haven't told her anything yet, but I've been watching good. I haven't seen any particular signs of memories and regrets, she being too busy to have them since she got back. Still, I believe they are there, and I'm that afraid I'll say Parke Alden in my sleep I put the covering over my head, for fear she'd hear me if I did.
I am back in her room, and this afternoon she asked me what I was looking at her so hard for. I told her she was the best thing to look at that came my way, and she laughed and called me a foolish child. But Mary Cary is thinking, and she isn't telling all she thinks about, either.
Well, it's written. That letter is written and gone. It was to Dr. Parke Alden. I sent it to his hospital in Michigan. I made it short, because by nature I write just endless, having gotten in the habit from making up stories for the girls and scribbling them off when kept in, which in the past was frequent. This is what I wrote:
DR. PARKE ALDEN:
Dear Sir,—Eleven weeks and two days ago I heard you did not know I was living. I am. I live in the Yorkburg Female Orphan Asylum, and have been living here for nine years and four months and almost a week. If you had known I was living all these years and had not made yourself acquainted with me, I would not now write you. But I heard, by accident, you did not know I had been born, so I am writing to tell you I was. It happened in Natchez, Miss. I know that much, but little more, except my father was an actor. I worship his memory. My mother was named Mary Alden, and you are her brother. If you would like to know more, and will write and ask me, I think you will learn something of interest. Not about me, but there are other people in this world.
Respectfully,
MARY CARY.
Three days have passed since I sent that letter off secret. I wouldn't let Miss Katherine know for a billion dollars that I'd sent it, but I'm glad I did. I'm sure she's got something in her heart she don't talk about, for last night, when she didn't know I was looking, I saw that same quiet proudness come in her face I saw the night of the ball.
I don't know how long it takes to go to Michigan, not knowing much about travelling, as I've never been out of Yorkburg since I came in. But some day I'm going around the world, and I'm going to see everything anybody else has ever seen before I marry my children's father. Of course, after I get married he will be busy, and there will be always some excuse that will make you tired. I'm going beforehand. Miss Webb says marriage is very uncertain.
This is a grand day. The crocuses are peeping up just as pert and pretty. The little brown buds on the trees have turned green and getting bigger every day, and even the air feels like it's had a bath. I just love the spring. Everything says to you: "Good-morning! Here we are again. Let's begin all over." And inside I say, "All right," and I mean it; but oh, Mary Cary, you're so unreliable. There are times when your future looks very much like a worm of the dust.
Miss Bray is real sick. She hasn't been well for a long time, and she looks like she's shrivelling, though still fat. She has nervous dyspepsia, which they say is ruinous to dispositions, and Miss Bray's isn't the kind for any sort of sickness to be free with.
It certainly is making her queer, for she's changed from sharpness to tearfulness, and she weeps any time. A thing I never thought I'd live to see.
Poor creature, I feel real sorry for her. Miss Jones says she's worn out, but I don't believe it's that. I believe it's conscience and coffee. Miss Bray isn't an all-over bad person. If it wasn't I knew she told stories, I could have stood the other things. But when a person tells stories, what have you got to hold on to? Nothing.
I believe it's those stories that's giving her trouble in her stomach. Anything on your mind does, and Miss Bray looks at me so curious and so nervous, sometimes, that I can't help feeling sorry for her.
I don't believe she will ever get well until she repents and confesses and crosses her heart that she won't do it again. A confession is a grand relief.
Suppose Dr. Parke Alden don't write, don't notice me! I will be that mad and mortified I will wish I was dead. But if he don't answer that letter, I will write a few more things to him before dying, for, if I am an Orphan, I oughtn't to be treated like a piece of imagination.
The black hen has got a lot of little chickens and the jonquils are in bloom. The sun is as warm as June, but I'm shivering all the time, and Miss Katherine says she don't understand me. She gave me a tonic to make me eat more. I don't want to eat. I want a letter.
Jerusalem the Golden! Now, what do you reckon has happened! Nothing will evermore surprise Mary Cary, mostly Martha.
If the moon ever burns, or the stars come to town, or the Pope marries a wife, or the dead come to life, I will just say, "Is that so?" and in my heart I will know a stranger thing than that.
Yesterday Miss Bray sent for me to come to her room. She was sick in bed, and her frizzes weren't frizzed, and she looked so old and pitiful that I took hold of her hand and said, "I'm awful sorry you are sick, Miss Bray."
And what did she do but begin to cry, and such a long crying I never saw anybody have. I knew there was a lot to come out and she'd better get rid of it, so I let it keep on without remarks, and after a while she told me to shut the door, and get her a clean handkerchief out of her top bureau-drawer.
I did it. Then she told me to sit down. I did that, too, and it's well I did. If I hadn't I'd have fell. Her words would have made me.
"Mary Cary," she said, "you have given me a great deal of trouble, and at times you've nearly worried me to death. But never since you've been here have you ever told a story, and that's what I've done." And she put her head down in her pillow, and I tell you she nearly shook herself, out of bed she cried so.
I was so surprised and confused I didn't know whether I was awake or asleep. But all of a sudden it came to me what she meant, and I put my arms around her neck and kissed her. That's what I did, Martha or no Martha; I kissed her. Then I said:
"Miss Bray, I'm awful glad you are sorry you did it. If you're sorry it's like a sponge that wipes it off, and don't anybody but you and me and God know about that particular one. And we can all forget it, if there's never any more."
And then she cried harder than ever. Regular rivers. I didn't know the top of your head could hold so much water.
But she said there would never be any more, for she'd never had any peace since the way I looked at her that day, and she couldn't stand it any longer. She didn't know why I had that effect on her, but I did, and she'd sent for me to talk about it.
Well, we talked. I told her I didn't think just being sorry was enough, and I asked her how sorry was she.
"I don't know," she said, and then she began on tears again, so I thought I'd better be quick while the feeling lasted.
"Well, you know, Miss Bray," I began, "Pinkie Moore hasn't been adopted yet. She never will be while the ladies think what you told them is true. You ought to write a letter to the Board and tell them what you said wasn't so."
"I can't!" she said; and then more fountains flowed. "I can't tell them I told a story!"
"But that's what you did," I said. "And when you've done a mean thing, there isn't but one way to undo it—own up and take what comes. But it's nothing to a conscience that's got you, and is never going to let you go until you do the square thing. If you want peace, it's the only way to get it."
"But I can't write a letter; I'm so nervous I couldn't compose a line." And you never would have known her voice. It was as quavery as old Doctor Fleury's, the Methodist preacher who's laid off from work.
"I'll write it for you." And I hopped for the things in her desk. "You can copy it when you feel better." And, don't you know, she let me do it! After three tryings I finished it, then read it out loud:
DEAR LADIES,—If any one applies for Pinkie Moore, I hope you will let her go. Pinkie is the best and most useful girl in the Asylum. More than two years ago I said differently. It was wrong in me, and Pinkie isn't untruthful. She hasn't a bad temper, and never in her life took anything that didn't belong to her. I am sorry I said what I did. She don't know it and never will, and I hope you will forgive me for saying it.
Respectfully,
MOLLIE E. BRAY.
When I was through she cried still harder, and said she'd lose her place. She knew she would. I told her she wouldn't. I knew she wouldn't. And after a while she sat up in bed and copied it. Some of her tears blotted it, but I told her that didn't matter, and when I got up to go she looked better already.
I knew how she felt. Like I did when my tooth that had to come out was out. And a thing on your mind is worse than the toothache. One you can tell, the other you can't. A thing you can't tell is like a spook that's always behind you, and right in the bed with you when you wake up sudden, and lies down with you every time you go to sleep. I know, for that letter is on my mind.
When I got out of Miss Bray's room I ran in mine, Miss Katherine being out, and locked the door, and I said:
"Mary Martha Cary, don't ever say again there's no such things as modern miracles. There's been a miracle to-day, and you have seen it. Somebody has been born over." And then, because I couldn't help it, I cried almost as bad as Miss Bray.
But, oh, nobody can ever know how much harm it had done me to believe a lady could go through life telling stories, and doing mean, dishonorable things, and not minding. And people treating her just the same as if she were honest!
When I found out it wasn't so—that your sin did make you suffer, and that it did make a difference trying to do right—I felt some of my old Martha-ry scornfulness slipping away. And I got down on my knees, no words, but God understanding why.
I don't like any kind of bitterness in my heart. I'd rather like people. But can you like a deceiver? You can't.
Dr. Parke Alden has taken no more notice of me than if I were a Juney-bug.
I wonder if Miss Katherine will ever marry. She wasn't meant to live in an Orphan Asylum. She was meant to be the Lady of the House, and to wear beautiful clothes, and have horses and carriages and children of her own, and to give orders. Instead of that, she is here; but sometimes she has a look on her face which I call "Waiting." Last week I wrote a poem about it. This is it:
"In the winter, by the fireside, when the snow falls soft and white,
I am waiting, hoping, longing, but for what I don't know quite.
And when summer's sunshine shimmers, and the birds sing clear and sweet,
I am waiting, always waiting, for the joy I hope to meet.
It will be, I think, my husband, and the home he'll make for me;
But of his coming or home-making, I as yet no signs do see.
But I still shall keep on waiting, for I know it's true as fate,
When you really, truly hustle, things will come if just you'll wait."
I don't think much of that. It sounds like "Dearest Willie, thou hast left us, and thy loss we deeply feel." But I wasn't meant for a poet any more than Miss Katherine for an old maid.
Dr. Parke Alden must be dead. Either that or he's no gentleman, or he didn't get my letter. I wish I hadn't written it. I wish I hadn't let him know I was living. But it was Miss Katherine I was thinking about. Thank Heaven, I didn't mention her name! He isn't worth thinking about, and I think of nothing else.