A JOLT FOR LESLIE
“What is it? Hurry up, and tell me.” Marjorie gave Jerry’s arm a
playfully impatient little shake, her own letters for the moment
forgotten.
“Listen to this,” Jerry began.
“DEAR OLD JEREMIAH:
“When you read this letter I shall be Mrs. Harry Lenox, and on
my way with Harry to South America. Some little jolt, Jeremiah,
but you’ll survive it. Harry’s father, now Muriel’s
highly-respected papa-in-law, has important business interests
in the Argentine. It was impossible for him to make the trip to
the Argentine at present, so Harry had to fall in line. That
meant he would not return to Sanford until next summer. Poor
Muriel. She had grown so used to having Harry around. As you
know, we expected to be married in November. Harry said, ‘Why
not now?’ I said, ‘It does seem as though something ought to be
done about it.’ And that’s what it’s all about.
“Father and Mother went to New York with us, and we were married
in the parsonage of St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church last Monday
afternoon, August twenty-fifth. Don’t forget the date. I was
married in the ducky pale tan traveling ensemble that I had had
made for my November going-away gown. I hadn’t yet decided upon
my wedding dress, and it was a good thing.
“I’m not yet over my own surprise at the sudden way all my nice,
artistic wedding plans went up in the air. One thing, however, I
insisted upon—a great big wedding cake. You and Marjorie, and
all my other good little pals, will receive a piece of that
glorious cake by parcel post.
“It seems awfully strange to be hurrying away from the good old
U. S., adventure-bound. I’d always planned a wonderful wedding,
with the big Sanford Six strictly on the job. Love is really a
serious matter. There could be only one thing more serious, to
me—not to be in love.
“I can’t stop to write any more just now. It is almost ten
o’clock, and we have to be on board the steamer by eleven. We
are to sail for Buenos Aires on the _Maraquita_ at midnight.
There’s no use in trying to tell you how sorry I am about going
so far away without having you and the girls on hand to wish me
_bon voyage_. You and Marjorie, my dear comrades of years, can
understand, above all others, just how I feel about it. I’ll
write you a long letter as soon as I’m settled on shipboard. Be
good, Jeremiah, and remember me to Dan-yell. More about
everything then, including several pages of regrets at not being
able to join your bridesmaid line on the fateful eighth of
September. Oceans of love. You’ll hear from me again soon.
“Hastily,
“MURIEL.”
“_What_ do you think of that?” Jerry’s tone conveyed her own feelings.
“Muriel was right about the jolt. After all, it’s just about what one
might expect of Muriel Harding. Maybe I shan’t miss her, though. We’d
planned a lot of things to do in Sanford next winter.” She vented a
long, regretful sigh.
“Your hunch came true, Jeremiah. We hadn’t expected to hear from Muriel
Harding Lenox, in New York, and all ready to sail for South America.
You’re the only one of the Big Six still single. And your fate is
sealed. Four of us are married to the boys who were our high school
cavaliers. You’re going to marry yours. Susan Atwell is the only one of
us who has loved and married far away from Sanford.” Marjorie’s lovely
features had grown dreamily reminiscent.
“There’s no use in denying it. We’re getting old, Bean; getting old.”
Jerry gave an elaborately disconsolate sniffle.
It set both chums to giggling as whole-heartedly as in the days when
they were freshmen at Sanford High, with the future a closed book, the
pages of which neither was curious to scan.
“I’ve a letter here from Muriel, too,” Marjorie said. “Let’s go back to
the veranda and have a letter-reading bee. One of mine is from Leslie
Cairns,” Marjorie was busily going over the envelopes in her hand, “and
this one’s from Robin Page. This one looks like a high-class
advertisement. Oh, here’s one from Gussie Forbes, postmarked California.
Then I’ve a Paris one from Connie, and last and best one from General.
That means he and Captain aren’t coming home just yet. Hurry up, Jerry.”
She began to tow Jerry speedily up the walk to the house. “I’m in a
grand rush to begin the bee.”
Marjorie laid the two letters for Hal on the willow porch stand,
hurriedly returning to the swing, there to enjoy her own. Jerry had
plumped down again in her rocker and was already perusing her mother’s
letter. “What did I tell you?” she commented to Marjorie as she
continued to read. “Mother is worrying like mad because I’m lingering
longer here than becomes the station of one, Jerry Macy, about to be
wed. It’s time for me to hit the home plate. I can see that.”
“Never mind. We’ll all be together again soon,” Marjorie reminded.
“And that rascal, Muriel Harding was to have been my maid of honor,”
Jerry groaned. “Why can’t you be my matron of honor, since she’s left me
in the lurch. I’d rather have you as a first aid to the altar than
anyone else.” She turned coaxingly to Marjorie.
“I’d love to be, except for one thing. I’d rather stand aside in favor
of the unmarried girls,” Marjorie said simply. “Let me see. You’re going
to have Leila, Vera, Leslie, Lucy, Helen Trent and Robin Page as your
bridesmaids.” She wrinkled her dark brows in a reflective frown. After a
moment’s silence she spoke: “Jerry, why don’t you have Lucy as your maid
of honor? Next to the Big Six, she’s really nearest to us all. It would
make her wonderfully happy.”
“Luciferous?” Jerry eyed Marjorie with a contemplative squint. “I never
thought of her. I was thinking just this minute that I might ask Helen
Trent to take Muriel’s place. Helen was my first Hamilton chum, you
know. Lucy——” Jerry became suddenly silent. “Right, as usual, beneficent
Bean.” She nodded conclusively. “I ought to ask Lucy to be my maid of
honor. I’ll do it, too. Mother says in her letter that the girls’ gowns
are finished, and waiting for a grand try-on. Lucy’s will have to be
altered, though. She’s considerably shorter than Muriel.”
“You haven’t told me about the dresses yet, Jeremiah,” Marjorie dimpled
as she made ingratiating reminder. Thus far Jerry had declined to give
details. “I’m going to give you a treat, Bean, so don’t ask questions,”
had been her reply.
“And I’m not going to, either,” Jerry came back with her tantalizing
grin. “I’ll invite you to the try-on. Curb your curiosity till then, or
I’ll compose a jingle about it,” she now threatened.
“You’re awfully mean,” Marjorie’s amused tone belied her words.
“Don’t you want to be delightfully surprised?” Jerry demanded.
“Of course I do. I was only funning, my dear Miss Macy.”
“Glad to hear it. I’d hate to hurt your feelings, Mrs. Macy.”
“Don’t mention it. There ain’t no such animal,” Marjorie retorted.
Smilingly, the two friends again went back to their letters. Jerry was
soon lost in the many pages of Ronny’s long friendly message. Marjorie
was finding equal pleasure in a long letter from Constance Armitage.
Every now and then, one of the pair would read aloud a particular
paragraph of her letter for the edification of the other.
Jerry had finished Ronny’s letter before Marjorie had come to the end of
the one from Constance. She busied herself with a rereading of Muriel’s,
smiling broadly to herself over it.
Marjorie was also smiling, as though she had suddenly come into the
knowledge of an extremely pleasant secret. The affectionate sidelong
glance she shot at Jerry seemed to indicate that it strictly concerned
the latter.
Presently she took up the letter from Leslie Cairns. It was hardly more
than a note, phrased in Leslie’s pithy fashion.
“Dearest Bean,” it began. “September’s near, and I’m glad of it.
I’ve tried Newport, the Catskills, and various other lady-like
resorts just to please Mrs. Gaylord, who is on the job, keeping
an eye on Cairns II while Peter is carrying on a snappy
financial war with the wolf pack in London. We’re home in little
old New York now, and Hamilton will be my next stop. Have you a
night’s lodging for a weary Traveler, should the spirit move me
to drop down, just like that, upon you? Gaylord is so full of
plans concerning what she ought to do, may do, and intends to
do, next, she doesn’t know where she’s at. I hope she decides to
visit her relatives, _pronto_. I can then gracefully kiss her
good-bye, and beat it for Hamilton. I suppose the campus is
looking as lively just now as a ten-acre lot after a circus has
moved off it. Nothing doing there yet. What? I’m going to
descend on Remson, and good old Fifteen again, though Peter
hopes we’ll be housed at Carden Hedge by Christmas. I have a new
car. It’s some speedy flash. I let it out the other day for
Gaylord’s benefit. She almost lost her breath, and her
confidence in Leslie is now missing. What’s the use in trying to
write the news? I’d rather tell it to you. You may expect me.
Love, as per usual, dear Bean.
“Faithfully (but bored to a frazzle),
“LESLIE.”
“Listen to Leslie’s funny letter,” Marjorie commanded.
“I’m listening.” Raising her head from her own letters, Jerry’s eyes
strayed toward the pike. With a quick exclamation she sprang to her
feet. “Look!” she cried, and rushed across the lawn to the drive.
One swift glance, and Marjorie had dashed down the steps in Jerry’s
wake. A station taxicab was just turning into the drive through the open
gates. She gave a jubilant little shout as she glimpsed a laughing face
peering out of an open window of the tonneau, and re-doubled her pace.
“Leila!” Her voice rose to a happy staccato. “You dear, precious old
fake. Whoever would have thought of seeing _you_ today. No wonder I
haven’t heard from you.” She was at the opened door of the machine now,
grabbing enthusiastically at the tall, blued-eyed Irish girl just
emerging from the car.
“It is myself, and none other.” Leila was out of the car now, clinging
affectionately to Marjorie. “Ah, Beauty, you are a rare sight to a poor
Irish emigrant.”
“Where’s emigrant number two?” Jerry had come up and joined in the
embracing. She peered past Leila into the tonneau of the car.
“Right here,” came in prompt tones. Vera Mason’s charming blonde head
poked itself into view. She sprang from the car, laughing, a dainty,
diminutive figure in her smart gray traveling coat and tight little felt
hat.
She was immediately seized and hugged, Marjorie and Jerry exclaiming
over the welcome pair, girl fashion. Jerry’s quick eyes had caught sight
of a third occupant of the tonneau. The latter, sat huddled in the far
corner of the broad seat, face obscured by the folds of a silk scarf,
carefully draped over it.
“You can’t fool _me_. Come out, _pronto_, and give an account of
yourself,” Jerry commanded. Making an agile reach into the tonneau she
snatched the concealing scarf from the wearer’s face, revealing Leslie
Cairns’ rugged laughing features.
“How are you, Macy?” Leslie made an attempt at a tone of calm
nonchalance which ended in a hearty burst of laughter.
“Fine and dandy, Cairns II,” Jerry caught Leslie’s extended hands and
began dragging her out of the car.
“Steady, there. You certainly have strong-arm methods.” Leslie came out
of the car with a bounce, due to Jerry’s forceful assistance.
“_Why, Leslie!_” Marjorie’s brown eyes were wide with pleasant
astonishment. “You, too! How splendid. I had just finished reading your
letter when Jerry saw the taxi turning in at our gate.”
“Gaylord went, and I came. Wait a minute. This taxi man thinks he’s been
held up here for an hour.” Leslie paid the fidgeting driver, who had
already placed the travelers’ luggage on the drive.
Jerry picked up two of the bags. “More of my strong-arm methods,” she
observed.
“I’ll take Vera’s, and mine,” Leslie reached for them.
“Since they seem to love work, why should we interfere?” Leila remarked
innocently.
“Why, indeed,” Marjorie gaily agreed.
She and Leila led the way to the house, arms about each other’s waists,
talking animatedly as they walked.
“Welcome, Travelers,” she called out as they entered the large square
living room. She turned, arms outspread, with a pretty gesture of
hospitality. “What does this room remind you of?” she turned to Vera and
Leila. She burst into a merry little laugh as a big, gray and white
Angora cat sat up, yawning widely, in a deep-cushioned chair. “You old
fluffy give-away!” she exclaimed.
“Castle Dean!” both girls cried in concert. “Ruffle!”
“And it’s plain to be seen a good household fairy whisked the castle
here from Sanford, Ruffle puss, and all,” Leila declared with an
enthusiastic touch of brogue and a fond dive at Ruffle. “The top of the
afternoon to you, Ruffle Claws.” She swept down upon Ruffle, gathering
him, struggling, into her arms.
“Now, now, now, is this the way to behave? I see you have the same old
claws. Have you no welcome, then, for Irish Leila?”
“Nu-u-u.” Ruffle accompanied his loud protest with a wild scramble out
of Leila’s prisoning arms. He sprang for his chair, regaining it, and
spreading out in it with an air of lofty defiance.
“Never mind. I shall charm you yet with catnip and cunning blarney.”
Leila shook her finger at the Angora. “This is the room I loved best at
Castle Dean,” she said to Marjorie. “What good fortune to find it again
here.”
“We all felt the same about it. Since General and Captain were to make
their home ours, and ours, theirs, the four of us got together and
decided that we’d better transplant our living room to Hamilton Estates.
It forms a link, somehow, between Sanford and here. So many wonderful
things have happened in this dear comfy room. _You_ never saw it before,
Leslie, but you’ll soon become well acquainted with it.”
Thoughtfulness prompted Marjorie to add this last to her cheery
explanation. Despite the fact that she was now on the friendliest of
terms with the girls she had once despised, at times Leslie still showed
signs of awkward embarrassment when among them.
“I love it already.” The oddly somber look, which had briefly touched
Leslie’s dark features, vanished. “It’s the most home-like room I’ve
ever stepped into. I’m home-hungry, you know,” she confessed. “I’m going
to make a bang-up, homey home for my father at Carden Hedge.”
“We shall all be going there to see you, lucky Leslie. It is only poor
Midget and I who have no home. Oh, wurra, wurra!” Leila wailed the last
two words soulfully.
“Plenty of noise, but no tears,” Vera commented slyly.
“She knows me,” Leila turned an indicative thumb toward Vera. “Or, it
may be she thinks she knows. It is all the same.”
“I hope you will all come and hang around the Hedge—a whole lot,” Leslie
said with half wistful emphasis. “Peter the Great and I are planning to
be ‘at home’ there by Christmas. I’m going to hold my old stand-by,
Fifteen, until our new home is ready. I’m undecided regarding P. G.
subjects. I’ll specialize in something—don’t know yet what I want to
take up.”
“You had best be satisfied with one subject,” Leila put in. “It is small
time you’ll have for more than one after college opens.”
Her eyes on Leila, Marjorie read in the Irish girl’s tone an odd
significance which Leslie had missed.
“I shan’t try to mix much in college affairs,” Leslie shook a decided
head. “I’ll have time enough on my hands for three subjects, provided
I’m ambitious enough to become a faithful study-hound.”
“She says, ‘three subjects.’ Now what do you think of that, Midget?”
Leila stared at Vera in pretended wonder.
“What are you trying to do—kid me?” Leslie’s sober features relaxed into
a faint smile. Quickly they shadowed again as she said: “You girls can
understand why I’m not keen on doing the social side of college. It’s
best for me to go quietly about my own affairs on the campus.” A deep
flush had risen to her cheeks. She made an abrupt pause, in itself
eloquent of her meaning.
“Oh, shucks!” burst impatiently from Jerry. “You don’t know your own
worth, Leslie. The social side of Hamilton needs _you_, in particular,
to help make things zip. You’ve already a reputation on the campus——”
“That’s just the trouble,” Leslie interrupted dryly. “Not the pleasant
sort of reputation you mean, Jeremiah. It’s the old one—the one that
I’ve not yet succeeded in living down. I hope to do it—in time, by hard,
unobtrusive work for Hamilton College. That’s the only way it can be
done.” Her rugged features settled into purposeful lines.
“Do you hear that, Midget? She is that anxious to be hard-working!”
This time Leslie caught the amused exchange of eye-signals between Leila
and Vera.
“See here, you two,” she challenged, “what’s the joke?” For a brief
instant a glint of hurt suspicion sprang into her dark eyes. It snapped
out as quickly as it had appeared. She said good-humoredly, “Why not
tell it to the gang? Then we can all laugh. Is it an Irish joke on
Leslie?”
“It is, indeed. Midget and I made it up in Ireland.” Leila flashed
Leslie a tantalizing smile.
“Well?” Leslie urged expectantly. “Shoot it at me.”
“Now I warn you, beforehand, that if you should not like our joke it
would be a sorry joke on me,” Leila fixed comically-concerned eyes on
Leslie.
“I’m already beginning to feel doubtful about it. You’d better shoot,”
Leslie warningly advised.
“It seems that I had.” Leila looked solemnly impressed. “Well, it was
this way: One day while Midget and I were wandering around the edge of a
deep green bog,” Leila began, story fashion, “I said to Midget, ‘Does it
not seem hard to you that your friend, Leila, should have to write plays
and be a theatrical manager, too?’ ‘It does,’ she said. ‘I can see you
will be in a bog as deep as the one over there when you go back to
Hamilton.’ ‘What a comfort you are to me, Midget,’ I said with a deep
sigh. ‘I have often thought so,’ she replied gently.”
A funny little treble giggle from Vera broke Leila up in the midst of
her recital. She burst out laughing, her companions joining in the wave
of mirth that swept the big room.
“Now I have lost the thread of my tale,” Leila declared after two or
three mirthfully-ineffectual attempts at continuing it. “Where was I at?
Ah, yes, I then said to Midget: ‘I should be one, or the other, but not
both.’ She said, ‘Quite true, but don’t ask me to be the one you decide
not to be. I cannot write plays, and it is all I can do to manage my own
affairs.’ ‘Be aisy,’ I said with a fine touch of brogue. ‘You are not my
idea of either.’ ‘Thank goodness,’ she said, not at all peevish. ‘I feel
that I was intended to be a playwright,’ I said. ‘I am that
temperamental!’ ‘Something like that,’ she said. ‘I have no genius for
managing,’ I confessed. ‘I cannot contradict you,’ said Midget. ‘You had
best turn that delicate little job over to someone else who has.’”
Leila paused. Her genial smile flashed broadly into evidence. Her eyes
strayed inquiringly to Marjorie.
The latter was leaning forward in her chair, a lovely picture of
delighted animation. “Oh, Leila!” she exclaimed. “How perfectly
splendid!”
“You have guessed something, Beauty. Was it not good advice that Midget
gave me? Now to follow it.” Her head made a swift sudden turn from
Marjorie to Leslie. “Will you be manager of the Leila Harper Playhouse,
Leslie?” she asked practically, then added drolly: “I shall tear my
black hair in a fine frenzy if you refuse.”
“Why—I—what?” Seated on the davenport Leslie had been leaning far
forward, elbows on knees, hands cupping her chin, her eyes fixed on
Leila. The unexpected suddenness of Leila’s question gave her a
veritable jolt. She made a startled forward movement, slid off the edge
of the davenport and sat down smartly on the floor.
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