THE PROMISE
Mary Raymond wondered, as she walked up the steps of Gray Gables,
between Constance and Marjorie, and into the brightly lighted reception
hall, how she could manage to endure the long evening ahead of her. She
was seized with an insane desire to break from Marjorie's light hold on
her arm and rush out of the house of this girl who had stolen her
dearest possession, Marjorie's friendship. How well she remembered the
day on which Marjorie had received the blue dress which Constance was
wearing so unconcernedly. It had come by express in a huge white
pasteboard box, while she and Marjorie were seated on the Deans' step
engaged in one of their long confabs. How excited they had been over it!
How they had exclaimed as Marjorie drew the blue wonder from its
pasteboard nest. Then a great trying-on had followed. She recalled with
jealous clearness how great Marjorie's disappointment had been when she
found it too small for her. Then Marjorie had said as she lovingly
patted its soft folds, "Never mind, I'll keep it always, just to look
at. It was awfully dear in Aunt Louise to send it to me and I wouldn't
let her know for worlds that it doesn't fit me." And now, after all she
had said, she had lightly given it away--and to Constance Stevens.
Mary forced herself to smile and reply to the friendly greeting of Miss
Allison, who stood in the big, old-fashioned hall helping to receive her
niece's guests. A moment more and she was surrounded by Geraldine Macy,
Irma Linton and Susan Atwell, who had come forth in a body from the
long, palm-decorated parlor off the hall to welcome her, accompanied by
a singularly handsome youth, a very tall, merry-faced young man and a
black-haired, blue-eyed lad, with clean cut, sensitive features.
She was presented in turn to Harold Macy, Sherman Norwood, known as the
Crane to his intimate associates, and Lawrence Armitage.
"So, _you_ are Marjorie's friend, Mary Raymond, of whom she has spoken
to me so often," smiled Hal Macy. "We are very glad to welcome you to
Sanford, Miss Raymond."
"Thank you," Mary returned, almost forgetting her first bitter moment.
Hal Macy's direct hand-clasp and frank, bright smile of welcome stamped
him with sincerity and truth. She liked equally well Lawrence
Armitage's deferential greeting and she found the Crane's wide, boyish
grin irresistible as he bowed low over her small hand. Yes, the Sanford
boys were certainly nice. She was not so sure that she liked the girls.
They made too much of Marjorie, and Marjorie had proved herself disloyal
to her sworn comrade and playmate of years.
Once inside the drawing-room, which had been transformed into an
impromptu ball-room by taking up the rugs and moving the piano to one
end of it, introductions followed in rapid succession.
"Mary, you must meet my foster father." Constance slipped her arm
through Mary's and conducted her to the piano where stood a man with an
immense shock of snow-white hair, sorting high piles of music arranged
on top. "Father."
The man at the piano wheeled at the sound of the soft voice. His stern,
almost sad face broke into a radiant smile that completely transformed
it.
"This is Mary Raymond. Mary, my father, Mr. Stevens," introduced
Constance. "And this is my uncle, Mr. Roland."
Both men bowed and took Mary's hand in turn, expressing their pleasure
at meeting her. Old John Roland's faded blue eyes contained a puzzled
look. "You are very familiar," he said. "Where have I seen you before?"
"Look sharply, Uncle John," laughed Marjorie, who had joined them. "You
have never seen Mary before. She is like someone you know."
"'Someone you know,'" repeated the old man faithfully. He would never
outgrow his quaint habit of repetition, although he had improved
immensely in other ways since the change in Constance's fortune had
released him from the clutch of poverty.
Mary eyed him curiously. Then her gaze rested on Mr. Stevens. What
peculiar persons they were. And Marjorie had never written her of them.
They must have a strange history. She made up her mind that she would
never ask her fickle chum about them. She would find out whatever she
wished to know from others. Now that she was a pupil of Sanford High she
would soon become acquainted with girls of her class other than those
she had already met. Perhaps she might learn to like some one better
than---- Her sober reflections stopped there. She could not bring
herself to the point of breaking her long comradeship with the girl who
had failed her.
Uncle John Roland was still staring at her and smilingly shaking his
gray head. "I don't know. I can't think, and yet----"
Suddenly a jubilant little shout rent the air, causing the group about
the piano to smile. In the same instant Mary felt a small hand slip into
hers. "I knew you comed to see Charlie again. Charlie wouldn't go to bed
because Connie said you'd surely come. Charlie loves you a whole lot.
You look like Connie."
"Look like Connie," muttered Uncle John. Then his faded eyes flashed
sudden intelligence. "I know. Of course she's like Connie. I guessed it,
didn't I?" He glanced triumphantly at Marjorie.
"So you did, Uncle John," nodded Marjorie brightly.
Mr. Stevens gazed searchingly at the young girl so like his foster
daughter. Mary felt her color rising under that penetrating gaze. It was
as though this dreamy-eyed man with the dark, sad face had read her very
soul. For a brief instant she sensed dimly the ignobleness of her
jealousy of his daughter. She felt that she would rather die than have
him know it. Perhaps, after all, she was in the wrong. She would try to
dismiss it and do her best to enter into the spirit of the merry-making.
An impatient tug at her hand caused her to remember Charlie's presence.
"Talk to me," demanded the child. "Connie says I have to go to bed in a
minute, so hurry up."
Mary stooped and wound her arms about the tiny, insistent youngster. She
clasped Charlie tightly to her and kissed his eager face. And that
embrace sealed the beginning of an affection between them, the very
purity of which was one day to lead her from the terrible Valley of
Doubt into the sunlight of belief.
"Now you've done it," was Marjorie's merry accusation. "You've stolen my
cavalier. Oh, Charlie, I thought I was your very best girl." She made
reproachful eyes at Charlie, who, delighted at receiving so much
attention, sidled over to her with a ridiculous air of importance and
took her hand.
"Everybody likes Charlie," he observed complacently. "Now he can stay up
all night and listen to the band."
"You'd go to sleep and never hear the band at all," laughed Constance.
"No, Charlie must go to bed and sleep and sleep, or he will never grow
big enough and strong enough to play in the band."
The half pout on Charlie's babyish mouth, born of Constance's dread
edict, died suddenly. Even the joys of staying up all night were not to
be compared with the glories of that far-off future.
"All right, I'll go," he sighed. "But you and Marjorie must come again
soon in the daytime when I don't have to go to bed. I'll play a new
piece for you on my fiddle. Uncle John says it's a marv'lus
compysishun."
A burst of laughter rose from the group around him at this calm
statement. After kissing everyone in his immediate vicinity, Charlie
made a quaint little bow and marched off beside Constance, well pleased
with himself.
"Isn't he a perfect darling?" was Mary's involuntary tribute.
"Yes, I adore Charlie," returned Marjorie. "I used to feel so dreadfully
for him when he was crippled. Isn't it splendid, Mr. Stevens, to see him
so well and lively?" She turned radiantly to the white-haired musician.
His face lighted again in that wonderful smile. He was about to answer
Marjorie, when Constance, who had seen Charlie to the door where he had
been taken in charge by a white-capped nurse, returned to them, saying:
"What shall we have first, girls, a one step?"
"Oh, yes, do!" exclaimed Jerry Macy, who had come up in time to hear
Constance's question, in company with a mischievous-eyed,
freckled-faced youth who rejoiced in the dignified cognomen of Daniel
Webster Seabrooke, but who was most appropriately nicknamed the Gadfly.
"Mr. Seabrooke, Miss Raymond," introduced Jerry.
The freckled-faced boy put on a preternaturally solemn expression and
begged the pleasure of the first dance with Mary. Mr. Stevens had
already handed the old violinist the music for the dance and placed his
own score in position upon the piano. The slow, fascinating strains of
the one step rang out and a great scurrying for partners began.
Marjorie found herself dancing off with Hal Macy, while Lawrence
Armitage swung Constance into the rapidly growing circle of dancers.
Irma Linton and the Crane danced together, while Jerry Macy, who danced
extremely well for a stout girl, was claimed by Arthur Standish, one of
her brother's classmates.
Once the hop had fairly begun, dance followed dance in rapid succession.
Much to Mary's secret satisfaction there were no gaps in her programme.
As it was, there were no wall flowers. An even number of boys and girls
had been invited and every one had put in an appearance. At eleven
o'clock a dainty repast, best calculated to suit the appetites of hungry
school girls and boys, was served at small tables on the side veranda,
which extended almost the length of the house.
It was not until after supper, when the dancing was again at its
height, that Marjorie and Constance found time for a few words together.
The two girls had slipped away to Constance's pretty blue and white
bedroom to repair a torn frill of Marjorie's gown.
"Isn't it splendid that we can have a minute to ourselves?" laughed
Constance. "I'm glad you happened to need repairing. I hope Mary is
having a good time. As long as it's her party I'm anxious that she
should enjoy herself."
"Of course she's having a good time. How could she help it?" returned
Marjorie staunchly. "All the boys have been perfectly lovely to her and
so have the girls. I knew everyone would like her. You and Mary and I
will have lots of fun going about together this winter."
Constance smiled an answer to Marjorie's joyous prediction. Then her
pretty face sobered. "Marjorie," she said, then paused.
Marjorie glanced up from the flounce she was setting to rights.
Something in Constance's tone commanded her attention. "What is it,
Connie?"
"Have you ever said anything to Mary about you--and me--and things last
year?"
"Why, no. I wouldn't think of doing so unless I asked you if I might.
I----"
"Please don't, then," interrupted Constance. "I had rather she didn't
know. It is all past, and, as long as so few persons know about it,
don't you think it would be better to let it rest?"
Marjorie bent her head over her work to conceal the sudden disturbing
flush that rose to her face. She had intended telling Constance that
very night of the remark that Miss Archer had made in Mary's presence
about their freshman year. She had felt dimly that, perhaps, Mary ought
to be put in possession of the story, although she had not the remotest
suspicion of the jealousy that was already warping her chum's thoughts.
Her one idea had been to answer all her questions as freely as she had
done in the past. She intended to put the matter to Constance in this
light. But now Constance had forestalled her and was asking her to be
silent on the very matters she wished to impart to Mary.
"It isn't as though it is something which Mary ought to know," continued
Constance, quite unaware of Marjorie's inward agitation. "It wouldn't
make her happier to learn it and--and--she might not think so well of
me. I wish her to like me, Marjorie, just because she is your dearest
friend. Don't you think I am right about it? You wouldn't care to have
even the friend of your best friend know all the little intimate details
of your life. Now, would you?" Constance slipped to her knees beside
Marjorie, one arm across her shoulder, and regarded her with pleading
eyes.
Marjorie stared thoughtfully into the earnest face of the girl at her
side. What should she say? If she told Constance that Mary had twice
asked questions regarding her affairs, Constance might think Mary unduly
curious. Perhaps, after all, silence was wisest. Mary might forget all
about it, and, in any case, she was far too sensible to feel hurt or
indignant because she, Marjorie, was not free to tell her of the
private affairs of another.
"Promise me, Marjorie, that you won't say anything," urged Constance.
Her natural reticence made her dread taking even Mary into confidence
regarding herself.
"I promise, Connie," said Marjorie with a half sigh. "There, I guess
that flounce will stay in place. I've sewed it over and over."
The two girls returned to the dance floor arm in arm. Mary Raymond's
blue eyes were turned on them resentfully as they entered the room. They
had been having a talk together, and hadn't asked her to join them. Then
her face cleared. She thought she knew what that talk was about.
Marjorie had been asking Constance's permission to tell her everything.
She would hear the great secret on the way home, no doubt. Her spirits
rose at the prospect of the comfy chat they would have in the automobile
and for the rest of the evening she put aside all doubts and fears, and
danced as only sweet and seventeen can.