The Cinderella secret

Front matter

Gopyriglit N °

COPyHiGHT DEPOSIT.

By

Chapter I

“You mean you really don’t think she’s stuck up? But, Sis, all the girls at school think so! She lives in the grandest house in town, and wears velvets and chiffons to school, and always acts as though she doesn’t want to talk to anybody! What else could you call it? I think that Mary Jane Smith is—”

“Sh, Francie, not so loud!”

New friends were always surprised to learn that Kathleen and Frances Forrester were sis¬ ters. Frances, just twelve, was very fair. Pale gold curls framed a vivid little face, lighted by dancing gray eyes. She could never sit still for very long, and was constantly finding everything about her “romantic” and “thrilling.”

Kathleen, two years older, was gray-eyed too, but there the likeness ended. Kathleen’s eyes were deep set and serene; her dark hair was drawn smoothly back from a face of quiet loveliness. Ivathie, as her friends called her, was not easily excited; she was one of those people who always know exactly what to do in every situation.

Different as they were, the two sisters were very congenial, and spent most of their time together.

The school term had recently ended, and the girls were enjoying a long, lazy vacation. On this particular afternoon, they were sitting in the cool shade of the high stone wall which separated the Forrester lawn from that of the house next door. Over their knitting Kathleen and Frances were chatting about the strange girl who lived there.

The Mortimer mansion towered high over the Forresters’ bungalow. It was a raw new build¬ ing in Spanish style, of violent pink stucco, quite different from the modest homes about it. It was not the only house of its type in the village, however. The nearby city was growing so rap¬ idly that Medhurst, from a sleepy country town, was turning into a prosperous suburb with more and more new residents.

Mr. J. Sterling Mortimer, the Forresters’ neighbor, was almost a complete stranger to his neighbors. He maintained an office in the city, to which he went daily, but neither he nor his wife had ever taken any part in the community life during the year they had lived in Medhurst. When Mrs. Mortimer occasionally entertained at an afternoon bridge party for ladies, her guests were always from the city. Elaborately dressed,

MARY JAYE 15

they drove through the streets with a very aloof air.

Mrs. Forrester, following the pleasant country custom, had once called on Mrs. Mortimer, only to be told by a maid that her mistress was “not receiving this afternoon.” Thus repulsed, the Forresters had carefully refrained from intrud¬ ing upon their new neighbors.

At her sister’s caution Frances glanced up at the window almost over her head. Then she louv¬ ered her voice.

“There’s no one at home there but Mary Jane and the cook. The other maid and the chauffeur left last week. It’s funny that they can’t seem to keep their servants! And the Mortimers, them¬ selves, went away yesterday. To Yew York on a two weeks trip, Helga says. The expressman told her. Wouldn’t you think they’d take Mary Jane on some of their trips? But they never do. Her aunt never even takes her into the city for an afternoon. And she’s never with them when they go out driving. Really, you'd think she was one of the maids, instead of their niece, except that they do buy her those wonderful clothes!”

“Well, I can tell you something about those wonderful clothes,” Kathleen observed. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but they’re all lots too big for her, except the ones which have obviously been made over. I’m only guessing, but I think they’re her aunt’s old dresses. Oh, I know they re made of beautiful materials, and must have cost a lot. But just the same, they weren’t bought for Mary Jane! And neither were those high-

heeled pumps she wears.”

“She lost a slipper in the hall one day,” Fran¬ ces said thoughtfully. “At school, I mean. That horrid Carter boy yelled at her, ‘Hey, Cinderella!’ It must have been too big for her, but I never dreamed—oh, Sis, do you think it s really so? That all she gets are the hand-me-downs when Mrs. Mortimer is through with them?”

“That’s what I think. It’s one of the reasons I said you were wrong in calling her ‘stuck-up.’ She’s not responsible for those fussy clothes, and I can’t believe she’s proud of them.”

“But she never talks to anybody,” Frances ob¬ jected. “You don’t have her in any of your classes, Sis, but I do, and you can’t imagine how stand-offish she is! You know that free period we have in the library for history refer¬ ence? It’s lots of fun, really. There’s no one in charge but a 9A girl, and she never cares how much we talk as long as we don’t make too much noise. Well, Mary Jane sits all by her¬ self in a corner and studies , the whole time!”

“Dear me, how unusual!” her sister laughed. “I don’t suppose there’s another girl in the seventh grade who’d be guilty of such outlandish conduct.”

“Well, there isn’t,” Frances argued seriously. “Not in the whole Junior High, including your own precious 9A, and you know it. Besides, we do study. I brought home a History A every month last year, didn’t I? But to study every minute, when there’s no one to make us— that’s not human! And anyway, when I say we talk in the library, well, we talk about school most of the time. We even talk about history. So there! Patty Friend brought in her Van Loon’s “Story of Mankind” one day because it isn’t in the school library, and we all had a grand time looking up what he said about the Protestant Reformation. It was lots more interesting than the textbook, and Miss Talbot was quite pleased because we’d done some outside reading. So if you think—”

“All right, all right, dear,” Kathleen inter¬ rupted the defence. “I know you study and I’m very, very proud of the work you do in school. What started this argument, anyway?”

“I’ve forgotten,” Frances admitted. “Oh, no, I haven’t. We were talking about Mary Jane Smith. Well, she wasn’t interested in the Van

Loon book. She never even came to look at it. That’s what I mean about her, Sis.”

“Maybe she was waiting to be asked.”

“Asked? But she was asked. The minute Patty came in the door she said, 'Look, girls, I’ve brought the history Uncle Fred gave me,’ and we all crowded around. Do you mean Mary Jane expected to be asked specially? But why? None of the rest of us did.”

“I know, darling, but you girls all know each other, and she’s a stranger. I believe she’s shy.” And Kathleen looked thoughtful.

“But what is there to be shy about? Just a bunch of girls in her own class. She was asked to the class party, though, I gave her the in¬ vitation to that myself. She thanked me for it quite politely, but she didn’t come. And she al¬ ways hurries off by herself the minute school is out. She never waits for anyone to walk with her. What can I think, except that she considers her¬ self too good for us? It’s what all the girls think.”

“I don’t, though,” Kathleen persisted. “I think it’s just plain shyness. A new girl in a strange school always has a hard time making friends. And by the way, did you know that Mary Jane wasn’t sent to school at all until the truancy officer called on her uncle? You remember they moved here in August of last year, and Mary Jane didn’t enter school until October? Well, that was the reason. Mr. Mortimer was terribly disagreeable about it, too. He said the girl knew enough already, and that his wife needed her at home. That’s some of Helga’s in¬ formation, from her policeman cousin.”

“Why, no, I didn’t know that. I remember she came in late, but I thought she’d been sick or something. You know she’s older than any¬ one else in the grade. She must be at least fourteen. I thought that perhaps she’d been out of school with a long illness, and had fallen be¬ hind. But if that’s the way her uncle feels, he’s probably kept her out as much as he dared, and that’s held her back. What a shame!”

“Yes. It may be another reason why she’s slow about making friends. She’s taller and older than the rest of you girls, and maybe she feels out of place. Does she do good work?”

“I shouldn’t say so,” Frances answered thoughtfully. “She never recites in class, unless she’s called on directly. Then she blushes and stammers and sits down as soon as she can. Her written work is fine, though. I had one of her English term papers to correct, and it was per¬ fect. You’d have thought a real author had written it. Her Latin translations are good, too, but she makes a perfect mess of the oral con¬ jugations.”

“Well, all that just proves my theory, that she’s not stuck-up, but shy,” Kathleen insisted. “Of course I haven’t seen as much of her as you have, but that’s what I think.”

“It does sound reasonable,” Frances agreed. “But if it’s so—why, my goodness, then it’s our fault that she’s had such a miserable lonely year at school! Mine, and Patty’s, and Charlotte’s! We could all have been nice to her, and we weren’t! You know how the girls are, Sis, they’re the friendliest crowd in the world, and we do have fun! I can see now Mary Jane must have thought we were deliberately leaving her out of things, and we thought she didn’t want to come in! Oh, what a mixup! And now, school’s out, and Patty and Charlotte are at camp, and the March twins have gone to their grandmother’s. There’s no one left in town but me! It’s just as bad with your crowd, too. We can’t give a party for her, because there’s no one to ask. But we’ve got to do something, we’ve just got to! Think, Sis, what can it be?”

“I suppose it has to be done this very minute?” Kathleen smiled. “I’m afraid it isn’t quite that simple, honey.”

Frances’ passion for “doing something” to right any real or fancied wrong was a family joke. Scarcely a day passed but that she brought in some pitiful creature to be helped, a stray cat, a crippled dog or an unfledged baby bird. Mrs. Forrester complained mildly that whenever she wanted a bath she found the tub occupied by a foundling turtle or a bewildered minnow. Helga was constantly threatening to leave if Miss Fran¬ ces didn’t stop turning her kitchen into an in¬ firmary for sick animals. Last winter Frances had started out blithely, with the contents of her savings bank, to do her Christmas shopping. She had returned empty-handed because a blind beggar had looked so blue and shivery standing in the snow.

Fourteen-year-old Kathleen, though she pre¬ tended to scoff at her younger sister’s tender¬ heartedness, had shared her own Christmas fund on that occasion. And she could usually be de¬ pended upon to lend a willing hand in binding up the wounded, and in pacifying Helga.

Remembering Mrs. Mortimer’s rebuff of her mother, however, Kathleen felt now that an at¬ tempt to compensate Mary Jane for her lonely year at school might present difficulties, especially if carried out in Frances’ usual headlong, whole¬ hearted fashion. The idea of giving a party for her, for instance. Mary Jane might be willing to come, might be very happy to meet the For¬ rester girls’ friends. But it was just possible that Mary Jane’s willingness was not the only factor to be considered.

Mrs. Mortimer’s consent would have to be obtained. And Frances’ word for Mary Jane flashed into Kathie’s mind. “ Stuck-up” exactly described Mary Jane’s aunt, Kathleen felt sure. The Mortimers were distinctly of the “new-rich” type. The lavish display of money was of su¬ preme importance to them. They did not want social contacts with the Medhurst people them¬ selves, and it was quite probable they would not want them for their niece.

Only a small stretch of lawn separated the Forrester’s home from the Mortimer house. Be¬ cause Mrs. Mortimer’s shrill, harsh voice had a penetrating quality, Kathleen felt certain that not all of the scolding she heard was directed at the servants.

Until today, Kathleen had said nothing of these suspicions to Frances. She now began to wish that she had remained silent. She could see nothing but trouble ahead if Frances’ passion for righting wrongs led to conflict with Mary Jane’s aunt. Sorry as Kathleen was for Mary Jane, she felt that an offer of friendship could only add to her difficulties. It was plain that Mrs. Mortimer did not wish her niece to make friends among the Medhurst girls. To urge her to do so hardly seemed wise.

“I don’t think I’d do anything just now, Kit¬ ten,” she had started to say, when both girls were startled into silence.

From somewhere in the depths of the Mortimer house, they heard a terrific crash, followed by a loud scream.

An instant later a second-story window flew up almost over their heads. Framed in it the sisters saw the pale, frightened face of the girl they had just been discussing.

“Oh, will you come, please?” she called. “Delia has had an accident! Oh, do hurry!”

Kathleen and Frances ran at top speed to their own gate, and raced up the short drive¬ way leading to the Mortimer place.

Mary Jane Smith met them at the open door and hurried them up the stairs.

“She was cleaning the chandelier in my aunt’s room, and the stepladder gave way,” she ex¬ plained breathlessly. “I’m afraid she’s terribly hurt. The whole thing came down on her. She caught at it to save herself, I think. What shall I do?”

They reached the head of the stairs, and Mary Jane turned toward a large front bedroom, from which came loud groans and wails.

“I don’t believe she could make such a fuss if she were badly hurt,” Kathleen said reassuringly. “Do you want to telephone for a doctor while we do what we can for her? That will save time. Call Dr. Fielding. He’s the nearest.”

Mary Jane obediently turned back to the tele¬ phone on the landing, and Kathleen entered the bedroom, followed by Frances.

A stout Irish woman lay sprawled on the floor, in a tangle of broken stepladder, wrought iron scrollwork and shattered glass.

Kathleen quickly pulled the twisted chandelier away, and Frances, after dragging the stepladder clear, ran to the bathroom for a towel dipped in water.

Kathleen knelt and bathed the woman’s face. To her relief she saw at once that there were no deep cuts from the broken glass, but many bleed¬ ing scratches.

“There, you’re all right now,” she said sooth¬ ingly. “The doctor’s coming, and we’re right here to help. Oh, do stop groaning and look at me! Where does it hurt most? Can you get up?”

Delia opened her eyes. “Merciful powers, and it’s not kilt I am then at all, at all? Oh, glory be, and I made sure I was dead!”

Kathleen laughed. “You’re a long way from being dead. Now let’s look you over and see what the damage really is. We won’t try to do much until the doctor comes, but I’m sure we can make you more comfortable. No, I’m not go¬ ing to hurt you. Any bones broken, do you think?”

“All of them, then,” the cook answered promptly. “There’s a hole in the back of me head you can put your hand into, where that thing crashed onto me, bad luck to it! I can feel me ribs stickin’ into me heart. And both legs is broke, but the right one is worse broken than the left. Sure ye’d better be sendin’ for the priest, Miss, for it’s beyond the doctor’s help I am.”

“Oh, come now, Delia, it can’t be as bad as all that,” Kathleen scoffed. “Here, let’s see that hole in the back of your head.”

She passed her fingers over the sparse gray hair, and felt a rapidly swelling lump.

“There’s no hole, but it’s a beautiful lump,” she reported cheerfully. “Here, feel for your¬ self.”

She guided the old woman’s shaking hand to the spot.

“I made sure it was a hole,” Delia said wonderingly.

She sat up a little straighter, still leaning heavily against Kathleen, and looked down at her feet, stuck straight out in front of her.

“But me legs is broke all right,” she added gloomily. “I can tell by the feel of ’em. I’ll never walk again.”

Rapidly, with the skill and confidence her Girl Scout training had given her, Kathleen proceeded with the examination. Although her hands were gentle, Delia winced and groaned at every touch.

Just as she finished, Mary Jane stood in the doorway.

“The doctor won’t be in for an hour—they said they’d send him right over. But we can’t wait that long, can we? I don’t know what to do. Oh, is it—do you think it’s serious?”

Kathleen stood up, smiling. “Not very. She has a lump on the back of her head, and some bad bruises, especially a deep one on her chest, where the top of the ladder caught her. The scratches on her face aren’t anything. The one real injury seems to be her right ankle. I’m fairly sure it isn’t broken, but it’s badly sprained. If you two will help me, we’ll get her on the bed here and I’ll bandage it for her. Just a loose temporary dressing to make it feel better till the doctor comes.”

“Oh, not this bed!” Mary Jane protested. “This is my aunt’s room. She’d never allow us to use it. Delia’s own room is at the back. We can get her there, can’t we?”

“I guess so,” Kathleen answered shortly. Then she relented as she saw the distress in Mary Jane’s eyes. After all, it wasn’t the girl’s fault if her aunt was such an ogress that one didn’t dare to make use of her possessions, even in an emergency.

“Give her your shoulder, Francie. Here, Mary Jane, you come round on this side with me. Now, Delia, you’ll have to hop. Don’t put that foot down. Oh, yes, you can. Lean on us as heavily as you like. There now, slowly does it. That’s fine.”

With infinite care they guided the groaning woman down the passage, and into a plain little room at the back of the house.

As soon as she was safe on the narrow iron bed Kathleen turned to Mary Jane.

“Have you any gauze and adhesive tape in the house? And how about witch hazel or al¬ cohol—something that will feel cool? All right, you show Frances where to find them, and then suppose you go down and make Delia a nice cup of hot tea while I put the bandage on. She’s coiner to feel a lot better in a very few minutes, I think.”

Half an hour later the patient, comforted by cooling bandages and steaming tea, drifted into a peaceful sleep.

The three girls hovered about for a few min¬ utes, then quietly left the room.

“We won’t disturb her until the doctor comes,” Kathleen whispered. “She’s had a bad shaking up, and rest is the best thing in the world for her.”

They had paused in the upper hallway, and Mary Jane silently motioned them to follow her along the passage.

“I thought perhaps you would come up to my room for a little,” she said timidly. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you yet for all you’ve done, and my aunt doesn’t allow—she doesn’t like me to use the rooms downstairs.”

“Of course we will,” Kathleen answered, glancing at her wrist watch. “We’ll stay until the doctor comes, if you like. There may be something he’ll want us to do.”

“You are so good! Here, this is the way.”

At the very end of the passage Mary Jane paused.

Hanging from the ceiling of ornamental rough plaster was a red velvet cord, ending in a heavy fringed tassel. Mary Jane reached up pulled the tassel gently. To the amazement of her visitors, a flight of narrow wooden steps slid silently down and rested on the floor.

“Good heavens, it’s a secret stairway!”

“Oh, no, not secret. All these Spanish-type houses have them instead of attic stairs,” their hostess explained. “It saves space in the hall, you see. But I do like it. It gives me such a wonderful feeling of being cut off from every¬ thing, and of having a little castle of my own up here. See, I could pull the cord through on this side if I wanted to, and then nobody could possibly get into the attic. It’s like a draw¬ bridge. Only of course I never do that, because my aunt wouldn’t like it,” she added hastily.

The girls followed her up the stairs, and the door at the top was left open, so that they might hear if Delia called.

“I have never brought anyone up here before,” Mary Jane confided. “I do hope you like my castle.”

Chapter II Ragtag Castle

The room, which Mary Jane was so eager to show Kathleen and Frances, extended the entire width of the house. There were four small windows, two at each end. The low ceiling was un¬ finished, with the rough beams showing, and the floor was of rough pine boards.

At first it seemed merely a jungle of broken furniture, trunks, packing cases and barrels.

But Mary Jane led the way quickly to a cleared space by the south windows where the the girls saw a small army cot, a dressing-table with a cracked mirror, and a battered chest of drawers.

The sunlight was waning, so Mary Jane reached up and snapped on a single electric light, covered by a crepe paper shade. Follow¬ ing her, the girls saw a sofa drawn up under the windows. Its broken springs were sagging to the floor, and its velvet covering was split and faded. Mary Jane motioned them to sit down.

RAGTAG CASTLE 31

“This is my very own room,” she said proudly.

“And isn’t it nice!” Kathleen exclaimed.

Frances looked at her sister in amazement. She had noticed the rather elaborate furnishings downstairs, and even the cook’s room, though plainly furnished, was luxurious compared with this ragtag attic.

Did Mary Jane mean that she actually liked this place, with its jumbled odds and ends? And Kathleen, dainty, fastidious Kathleen, who must always have things just so, had spoken as if she truly admired it!

“No one ever comes up here,” Mary Jane re¬ peated, with that unaccountable air of pride. “It’s all mine.”

And suddenly Frances understood, with a swift rush of pity which brought stinging tears to her eyes.

Why, of course, how stupid she had been! Mary Jane loved her attic because it was hers, the one place in the rich unfriendly house where she could feel at home. Her terror at the idea of putting Delia on her aunt’s bed, her apology for not taking them into the living-room for this little visit—these things told their story. This attic room was a refuge. It was here that she came to be alone, safe with the treasures that were hers because no one else thought them worth having.

With new understanding Frances looked about her. The row of battered books on the nearest packing-case, the dressing-table contrived of a wooden box and faded cretonne, the home-made lampshade, the cot with its carefully darned white coverlet—of course these things were pre¬ cious to Mary Jane, just because they were her very own.

“Oh, I like your castle too, Mary Jane,” she said quickly. “I—I think it’s just beautiful!” Her eyes met Kathleen’s.' Neither of them had ever uttered a white lie with a clearer con¬ science.

Mary Jane’s sad face glowed. “I was afraid you might laugh at it,” she confessed. “You see, I don’t know any girls, and I’m afraid they don’t like me. My aunt says it’s silly to be so sensitive, but I can’t help it. It was such a re¬ lief when vacation came. I just hated going to school, knowing that the girls were laughing at my clothes.”

“Your clothes!” Frances exclaimed. “But my dear, we all thought your clothes were gorgeous! WFy, we were afraid to speak to you, in our sweaters and cotton prints.”

Mary Jane shook her head. “You can’t mean that, you only say it not to hurt my feelings. I know how I look in—these—” she broke off, looking down at her lap.

RAGTAG CASTLE

She was wearing a yellow chiffon frock, a little frayed and faded, and it hung in awkward folds on her thin body. “I’d give anything, anything for a pink gingham dress that was made for mer she finished passionately.

Frances twisted uncomfortably on the sag¬ ging sofa. “Oh, I don’t think clothes make much difference, one way or the other,” she ven¬ tured. “Anyway, we don’t judge our friends by their clothes, do we, Kathie?”

“We certainly don’t,” her sister agreed, put¬ ting a warm hand over Mary Jane’s. “And you’re our friend now, so let’s forget clothes and talk about books. What do you read, mostly?”

“You really mean that?” Mary Jane’s great dark eyes were traveling slowly from one sister to the other. “I have never had a friend. You really mean that you would be friends—with

mer

“That’s exactly what we mean,” Francie said, and squeezed Mary Jane’s other hand. Oh, there’s the doorbell! It must be the doctor.” And the girls hurried downstairs to hear his

verdict on Delia’s injuries.

Dr. Fielding’s examination confirmed Kath¬ leen’s judgment. He complimented her on her skilful first aid work, and ordered Delia to keep off her feet for several days.

When he had gone Kathleen turned to Mary Jane.

“We must go now. Mother will be wondering what in the world has happened to us. Are you sure you can manage all right by yourself? If you want help just call us. We’re close neigh¬ bors, you know, although I’m afraid we haven’t seemed very neighborly. We’ll run over the first thing in the morning and see how Delia is, any¬ way. Come along, Kitten.”

But Frances lingered a moment to whisper shyly in Mary Jane’s ear. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t nicer to you when you first came, Mary Jane. I’m going to try awfully hard to make up for it now. Just wait, and you’ll see!”

Chapter III Good News

“Where have you been, girls?” Mrs. For¬ rester was standing in the doorway, her pretty face bright with suppressed excitement. “I’ve looked all over for you!”

“Oh, sorry, Mother dear, we were next door. Mary Jane Smith called us over. She’s the Mortimers’ niece, you know, and she’s in Francie’s class at school.”

“The little girl with the big eyes and the queer clothes? But I didn’t know that you knew her.”

“Well, we didn’t, exactly,” Kathleen answered. “But their cook fell and hurt herself, and she asked us to come, Mary Jane did, I mean. Of course she knew who we were, because she sees us at school and around here. And I did my daily good deed by bandaging up the cook. No, it wasn’t anything serious, just a sprain. Then we stayed for a little talk. Mary J ane s really a darling, isn’t she, Francie?”

“Oh, Mums, she’s the sweetest thing! And so pathetic! That ferocious old aunt of hers just doesn’t let her call her soul her own!” Frances plunged eagerly into her impressions of Mary Jane’s home life.

Mrs. Forrester listened sympathetically, but a little absently. Kathleen, scanning her moth¬ er’s face, cut the recital short.

“Never mind all that now, Kitten. It will keep. If I’m not mistaken our lovely mother has some news of her own. With her wellknown politeness she’s let you tell your story first. Now will you keep still and give her a chance? What is it, Mums? Is it a letter from Daddy?”

Mrs. Forrester nodded, smiling. “A letter— with some wonderful news. Guess what?”

“He’s coming home!” Frances shrieked. “Oh, let me see, read it to us, quick! Oh, Sis, aren’t you excited? When, Mums? Where’s the let¬ ter?”

“Come and sit down, and we’ll read it to¬ gether.”

Mrs. Forrester led the way into the pleasant living-room and sank upon the chintz-covered davenport by the window, with an eager daugh¬ ter on either side. From her pocket she pro¬ duced a thick envelope, and Frances pressed close against her shoulder. “Read it out loud,

GOOD NEWS 37

Mums!” she begged. “Every word. And please hurry!”

Mrs. Forrester drew out the crackling pages. She was quite as excited as the sisters. Mr. Forrester was a civil engineer, and for the past two years he had been in China, directing the building of a bridge to span the mighty Hoang-ho Fiver. His last letter had told them that the task was almost completed, and that they could expect him home shortly, but they had not dared to hope that it would be as soon as this.

“My dear ones” Mrs. Forrester obediently began reading aloud. “I had so many things to attend to at the last moment that I did not find time to write you that I was sailing. Will you forgive me? This letter , which I shall send by air-mail as soon as we land in San Francisco , will come to you as a surprise. I shall be with you again almost as soon as it reaches you, as I arrive in Medhurst by the 6:10 on Wednesday evening. I only hope you re all as glad as I am!