THE COMMON FATE OF REFORMERS
Nevertheless the session behind closed doors had one beneficial effect.
It broke the ice that had lately formed over the long comradeship of the
two girls, and, although nothing was as of old, they were both secretly
relieved to still be on terms of conversation. Out of pure regard for
Mary, Marjorie treated her exactly as she had always done, and Mary
pretended to respond, simply because she had determined that Mr. and
Mrs. Dean should not become aware of any difference in their relations.
She affected an interest in planning for the party and kept up a pretty
show of concern which Marjorie alone knew to be false. Privately Mary's
deceitful attitude was a sore trial to her. Honest to the core, she felt
that she would rather her chum had maintained open hostility than a
farce of good will which was dropped the moment they chanced to be
alone. Still she resolved to bear it and look forward to a happier day
when Mary would relent.
The invitations to the party had been mailed and duly accepted. Much to
Mary's secret surprise and chagrin, Mignon had not declined to shed the
light of her countenance upon the proposed festivity, but had written a
formal note of acceptance which amused Marjorie considerably, inasmuch
as the acceptances of the others had been verbal. Despite her hatred
for Marjorie Dean and her friends, Mignon had resolved to profit by the
sudden show of friendliness which, true to their compact, the five girls
had lost no time in carrying out. Ignoble of soul, she did not value the
favor of these girls as a concession which she had been fortunate enough
to receive. She decided to use it only as a wedge to reinstate herself
in a certain leadership which her bad behavior of last year had lost
her. She had no idea of the real reason for their interest in her. She
preferred to think that they had come to a realization of her vast
importance in the social life of Sanford. Was not her father the richest
man in the town? She had an idea that perhaps Mary Raymond might be
responsible for her sudden accession to favor. She had taken care to
impress her own importance upon Mary's mind, together with certain vague
insinuations as to her wrongs. After her first brief outburst against
Marjorie and Constance Stevens, she had decided that she would gain
infinitely more by playing the part of wronged innocence. When she
received her invitation she had already heard that Constance was in New
York and likely to remain there for a time. This influenced her to
accept Marjorie's hospitality. Her own consciousness of guilt would not
permit her to go to any place where she would meet the accusing scorn of
Constance's blue eyes. Then, too, she had still another motive in
attending the party. She had always looked upon Lawrence Armitage with
eyes of favor. He had never paid her a great deal of attention, but he
had shown her less since the advent of Constance Stevens in Sanford.
She resolved to show him that she was far more clever and likable than
the quiet girl who had taken such a strong hold on his boyish interest,
and with that end in view Mignon planned to make her reinstatement a
sweeping success.
Friday afternoon was a lost session, so far as study went, to the
Sanford girls who were to make up the feminine portion of Marjorie's
party.
"Good gracious, I thought half-past three would never come!" grumbled
Jerry Macy in Marjorie's ear as they filed decorously through the
corridor. "Let's make a quick dash for the locker-room. I've a pressing
engagement with the hair-dresser and I'm dying to get through with it
and sweep down to dinner in my new silver net party dress. It's a dream
and makes me look positively thin. You won't know me when you see me."
"You're not the only one," put in Muriel Harding. "You won't be one,
two, three when I appear to-night in all my glory."
"Listen to the conceited things," laughed Irma Linton. "'I won't speak
of myself,' as H. C. Anderson beautifully puts it."
"Who's he?" demanded Jerry. "I know every boy in Sanford High, but I
never heard of him."
A shout of laughter greeted her earnest assertion.
"Wake up, Jerry," dimpled Susan Atwell. "H. C. stands for Hans
Christian. Now does the light begin to break?"
"Oh, you make me tired," retorted Jerry. "Irma did that on purpose.
That's worse than my favorite trap about letting it rain in Spain. How
was I to know what she meant?"
"That's all because you don't cultivate literary tastes," teased Muriel.
"I do cultivate them," grinned Jerry. "I've read the dictionary through
twice, without skipping a page!"
"It must have been a pocket edition," murmured Marjorie.
"Stop teasing me or I'll get cross and not come to your party,"
threatened Jerry.
"You mean nothing could keep you away," laughed Irma.
"You're right. Nothing could. I'll be there, clad in costly raiment, to
spur the reform party on to deeds of might."
"Do come early, all of you," urged Marjorie as she paused at her corner
to say good-bye.
"We'll be there," chorused the quartette after her.
"I hope everyone will have a nice time," was Marjorie's fervent
reflection as she hurried on her way. "I do wish Mary would walk home
with me once in a while, instead of always waiting for Mignon. I
wouldn't ask her to for worlds, though."
To see Mary walk away with Mignon at the end of every session of school
had been a heavy cross for Marjorie to bear. Surrounded as she always
was with the four faithful members of her own little set, she was often
lonely. If only Constance had been in school she could have better borne
Mary's disloyalty, although the latter could never quite fill the niche
which years of companionship had carved in her heart for Mary. But
Connie was far away, so she must go on enduring this bitter sorrow and
make no outward sign.
Usually ready to bubble over with exhilaration when on the eve of
participating in so delightful an occasion as a party, it was a very
quiet Marjorie who tripped into the living-room that afternoon. The big,
cosy apartment had undergone a marked change. It was practically bare,
save for the piano in one corner, which had been moved from the
drawing-room, and a phonograph which was to do occasional duty, so that
the patient musicians might now and then rest from their labor.
Mrs. Dean was giving a last direction to the men who had been hired to
move the furniture about as Marjorie entered.
"Everything is ready, Lieutenant," smiled her mother. "We have all done
a strenuous day's work in a good cause."
"Thank you over and over again, Captain. It's dear in you to take so
much trouble for me. I'm afraid you've worked too hard." Her lately
pensive mood vanishing as she viewed the newly waxed floor, Marjorie
executed a gay little _pas-seul_ on its smooth surface and made a
running slide toward her mother, striking against her with considerable
force.
"Steady, Lieutenant." Her mother passed an arm about her and gave her a
loving little squeeze. "Please have proper respect for the aged."
"There are no such persons here," retorted Marjorie, "I see a young and
beautiful lady, who----"
"Must go straight to the kitchen and see what Delia is doing in the way
of dinner," finished Mrs. Dean. "Remember, we are to have it at
half-past five to-night, so don't wander away and be late. Your frock is
laid out on your bed, dear. You had better run along and dress before
dinner. Then you will be ready. The time will fairly fly afterward.
Where is Mary? Why doesn't she come home with you in the afternoon? For
the past week she has come in long after school is out."
"Oh, she stops to talk and walk with Mignon," replied Marjorie, with an
air of elaborate carelessness. "They are very good friends."
Mrs. Dean seemed about to comment further on the subject when Delia
appeared in the doorway and distracted her attention to other matters.
Marjorie breathed a sigh of relief as she went upstairs. She was glad to
escape the further questions concerning Mary which her mother seemed
disposed to ask. Her gaiety had been evanescent and she now experienced
a feeling of positive gloom as she entered her pretty room and prepared
to bathe and dress for the evening. She could not resist a thrill of
pleasure at the sheer beauty of the white chiffon frock spread out on
her bed. She wondered if Mary would wear her pale blue silk evening
frock, or the white one with the lace over-frock. They were both
beautiful. But she had always loved Mary in white. She wondered if she
dared ask her to wear the white lace gown.
While she was dressing, through her half-opened door she heard Mary's
voice in the hall in conversation with her mother. Hastily slipping
into her pretty frock, she went to the door hooking it as she walked.
Mary was just appearing on the landing.
"Oh, Mary," she called genially, "do wear your white. You will look so
lovely in it."
"I'm going to wear my blue gown," returned Mary stolidly, and marched on
down the hall to her room, closing the door with a bang. "Just as though
I'd let her dictate to me what to wear," she muttered.
The two young girls made a pretty picture as they took their places at
the dinner table.
"I wish General were here to see you," sighed Mrs. Dean. Mr. Dean had
been called away on a business trip east.
"So do I," echoed Marjorie. "Things won't be quite perfect without him."
Neither girl ate much dinner. They were far too highly excited to do
justice to the meal. In spite of their estrangement they were both
looking forward to the dance.
At half-past seven o'clock Jerry and the rest of the reform party
arrived, buzzing like a hive of bees.
"Is she here yet?" whispered Jerry Macy in Marjorie's ear, after paying
her respects to Mrs. Dean and Mary, who, with Marjorie, received their
guests in the palm-decorated hall.
"No, she hasn't come. I suppose she will arrive late. You know she loves
to make a sensation." Marjorie could not resist this one little fling,
despite her good resolutions.
The guests continued to arrive in twos and threes and Marjorie was kept
busy greeting them. True to her prediction, it was after eight o'clock
when Mignon appeared. She wore an imported gown of peachblow satin that
must have been a considerable item of expense to her doting father. Her
elfish face glowed with suppressed excitement and her black eyes roved
about, with lightning glances, born of a curiosity to inspect every
detail of her unfamiliar surroundings.
"I am glad you came," greeted Marjorie graciously, and presented Mignon
to her mother.
The French girl acknowledged the introduction, then turning to Mary
began an eager, low-toned conversation, apparently forgetting her
hostess.
Mrs. Dean betrayed no sign of what went on in her mind, but her thoughts
on the subject of Mignon were not flattering. Ill-bred, she mentally
styled her, and decided that she would look into the matter of her
growing friendship with Mary.
The dancing had already begun when, piloted by Mary, who had apparently
forgotten that she was of the receiving party, the two girls strolled
into the impromptu ballroom. Mary was immediately claimed as a partner
by Lawrence Armitage, who tried to console himself with the thought
that, at least, she looked like Constance. Mignon's face darkened as
they danced off. Lawrie had merely bowed to her. But he had asked Mary
to dance. That was because she resembled that odious Stevens girl. Her
resentment against Constance blazed forth afresh. She hoped Constance
would never return to Sanford.
Thanks to a long lecture which Jerry had read to her brother Hal, Mignon
was not neglected. Although none of the Weston High boys really liked
her, she was asked to dance almost every number. Later in the evening
Lawrence Armitage asked her for a one-step, and she vainly imagined
that, after all, she had made an impression on him. Radiant with triumph
over her social success, Mignon saw herself firmly entrenched in the
leadership she dreamed would be hers. But her triumph was to be
short-lived.
After supper, which was served at two long tables in the dining-room,
the guests returned to their dancing with the tireless ardor of first
youth. Chancing to be without a partner, Mignon slipped into a
palm-screened nook under the stairs for a chat with Mary, who had
followed her about all evening, more with a view of hurting Marjorie
than from an excess of devotion. From their position they could see all
that went on about them, yet be quite hidden from the unobservant. The
unobservant happened to be Marjorie and Jerry Macy, who had come from
the ballroom for a confidential talk and taken up their station directly
in front of the alcove. Save for the two girls behind the palms, the
hall was deserted.
"Well, I guess Mignon's having a good time," declared Jerry Macy in her
brisk, loud tones. "She ought to. I nearly talked myself hoarse to Hal
before he'd promise to see that the boys asked her to dance. This reform
business is no joke."
"Lower your voice, Jerry," warned Marjorie. "Someone might hear you."
Mary Raymond made a sudden movement to rise. Stubborn she might be, but
she was not so dishonorable as to listen to a conversation not intended
for her ears. Mignon pulled her back with sudden savage strength. She
laid her finger to her lips, her black eyes gleaming with anger.
"Oh, there's no one around. Say, Marjorie, do you think it's really
worth while to go out of our way to reform Mignon? Look at her to-night.
You'd think she had conquered the universe. She was all smiles when
Laurie Armitage asked her to dance. He can't bear her, he told me so
last Hallowe'en, after she made all that fuss about her old bracelet. If
we hadn't banded ourselves together to find that better self which you
are so sure she's carrying around with her, I'd say call it off and
forget it. None of us really likes her. You know that, even if you won't
say so. She is----"
The waltz time ended in a soft chord and the dancers began trooping
through the doorway to the big punch-bowl of lemonade in one corner of
the hall. They were just in time to see a lithe figure in pink spring
out, catlike, from behind the palm-screened alcove and hear a furious
voice cry out, "How dare you insult a guest by talking about her, the
moment her back is turned?"