THE PENALTY
Marjorie awoke the next morning with a dull ache in her heart. It was as
though she had been the victim of a bad dream. She stared gloomily about
her, struggling to recollect the cause of her depression. Then
remembrance rushed over her like a wave. No, she had not dreamed. Last
night had been only too real. If anyone had even intimated to her
beforehand that the party which had promised so much was fated to end so
disagreeably, she would have laughed the prediction to scorn. If only
Jerry had kept her unpleasantly candid remarks to herself! Yet, after
all, she could hardly blame her very much. What Jerry had said had been
intended for her ears alone. As hostess, however, she should not have
permitted Jerry to continue. Marjorie blamed herself heavily for this.
To be sure, it had been hardly fair in Mary and Mignon to listen. They
should have made known their presence. She wondered what she would have
done under the same circumstances. Her sense of honor answered her. She
knew she would have immediately come forward. She could not understand
why Mary had not done so. Loyal to the core, Marjorie's faith in her
chum refused to die. The Mary she had known for so many years had not
been lacking in honor. What she had feared from the first had come to
pass. Mary had been swayed by Mignon's baleful personality. The
much-talked-of reform had ended in a glaring fizzle.
For some time Marjorie lay still, her thoughts busy with the disquieting
events of the previous night. She had longed to turn and comfort the
tense little figure standing immovable in the middle of her room, but
her Captain's word was law, and Marjorie could but sadly acknowledge to
herself that her mother had acted for the best. So she could do nothing
but follow her from the room with a heavy heart.
What was to be the outcome of the affair she dared not even imagine. A
reconciliation with Mary was her earnest desire. This, however, could
hardly be brought about. Perhaps they would never again be friends. A
rush of tears blinded her brown eyes. Burying her face in the pillow,
Marjorie gave vent to the sorrow which overflowed her soul.
The sound of light, tapping fingers on the door caused her to sit up
hastily. "Come in," she called, trying to steady her voice.
The door opened to admit Mary Raymond. Her babyish face looked white and
wan in the clear morning light. For hours after her door had closed upon
Marjorie and her mother she had sat on the edge of her bed in her pretty
blue party frock, brooding on her wrongs. When she had finally prepared
for sleep, it was only to toss and turn in her bed, wide-awake and
resentful. At daylight she had risen listlessly, then fixing upon a
certain plan of action, had bathed, put on a simple house gown and
knocked at Marjorie's door.
A single glance at Marjorie's face was sufficient for her to determine
that her chum had been crying. She decided that she was glad of it.
Marjorie had made _her_ unhappy, now she deserved a similar fate.
"Why, Mary!" Marjorie sprang from the bed and advanced to meet her.
Involuntarily both arms were outstretched in tender appeal.
Mary took no notice of the mutely pleading arms, save to step back with
a cold gesture of avoidance.
"I haven't come here to be friends," she said with deliberate cruelty.
"I've come to ask you what you intend to say to your mother."
"What _can_ I say to her?" Marjorie's voice had a despairing note.
"You can say nothing," retorted Mary. "That is what _I_ intend to do.
Your friend, Jerry Macy, said too much last night. I cannot see why our
school affairs should be discussed in this house. I am sorry that
Mignon made a--a--disturbance last night. I didn't intend to listen,
but----" Her old-time frankness had almost overcome her newly hostile
bearing. She was on the point of saying that she had been ready to step
forth from behind the palms at Jerry's first speech. Then loyalty to
Mignon prevailed and she paused.
Marjorie caught at a straw. "I _knew_ you didn't intend to listen,
Mary." The assurance rang out earnestly. "I couldn't make myself believe
that you would. I wanted to stay last night and tell you how sorry I was
for--for everything, but I owed it to Captain to obey orders. Mary,
dear, can't we start over again? I'm sure it's all been a stupid
mistake. Let's be good soldiers and resolve to face that dreadful enemy,
Misunderstanding, together. Let's go to Captain and tell her every
single thing! Think how much better we'll both feel. It almost broke my
heart, last night, when you said you were going to Mignon's to live. If
Captain thinks it best, I'll break my promise to Connie and tell
you----"
At the mention of Constance Stevens' name Mary's face darkened. Touched
by Marjorie's impassioned appeal she had been tempted to break down the
barrier that rose between them and take the girl she still adored into
her stubborn heart again. But the mere name of Constance had acted as a
spur to her rancor.
"Don't trouble yourself about begging permission of Miss Stevens on _my_
account," she sneered. "I know a great deal too much of her already.
What do you suppose the girls and boys of Franklin High, who gave you
your butterfly pin, would say if they knew that you let the girl who
stole it from you wear it for months? If you had been honorable you
would have made her give it back and then dropped her forever."
Marjorie's sorrow disappeared in wrath. "Mary Raymond, you don't know
what you are talking about," she flamed. "I can guess who told you that
untruth. It was Mignon La Salle. It was _not_ Constance who took my
butterfly pin. It was----"
Again she remembered her promise.
"Well," jeered Mary, "who was it, then?"
"I shall not say another word until I see Captain." Marjorie's tones
were freighted with decision.
"You mean that you can't deny that your friend Constance was guilty,"
cut in Mary scornfully. "Never mind. I don't care to hear anything more.
You needn't consult your mother, either. I'm never going to be friends
with you again, so it doesn't matter. But if you ever cared the least
bit for me you'll do as I ask and not tell tales to Captain--I mean Mrs.
Dean," she corrected haughtily. "If you do, then I repeat what I said
the other day. I'll never speak to you again--no, not if I live here
forever. But I won't have to do that, for I shall write to Father and
ask him to let me go to Mignon's to live. So there!"
With this dire threat Mary flounced angrily from the room, well pleased
with the stand she had taken.
It was a most unsociable trio that gathered at the breakfast table that
Saturday morning. Mary carried herself with open belligerence. Marjorie
looked as though she was on the point of bursting into tears, while Mrs.
Dean was unusually grave. A delicate task lay before her and she was
wondering as she poured the coffee how she had best begin. Still she had
determined to thresh the matter out speedily, and as soon as Delia had
served the breakfast and retired to the kitchen, she glanced from one to
the other of the two principals and said, "Now, girls, I am waiting to
hear about last night."
A blank silence fell. Marjorie fixed her eyes on Mary. To her belonged
the first word.
The silence continued.
"Well, Mary," Mrs. Dean spoke at last, "what have you to say for
yourself?"
"Nothing," came the mutinous reply.
"I am sorry that you won't meet me frankly," commented Mrs. Dean. "I had
hoped to find you on duty." Her searching gaze rested on Marjorie
"Lieutenant, it is your turn, I think."
Marjorie flushed with distress. She was between two fires. Obedience
won. She related what had transpired in the hall in a few brief words,
shielding Mary as far as was possible.
"But I know all this," said Mrs. Dean, a trifle impatiently. "Jerry told
me last night. There is more to this affair than appears on the surface.
What has happened to estrange you two, who have been chums for so many
years? I have seen for some time that matters were not progressing
smoothly between you. Things cannot go on in this way. You must take me
into your confidence. It is evident that a reform is needed here at
home."
Mary stared fixedly at her plate. She was resolved not to be a party to
that reform. If Marjorie failed her, well--she knew the consequences.
Marjorie saw the sullen, mutinous face through a mist of tears. She
tried to speak, but speech refused to come.
"I am ashamed of my soldiers." Mrs. Dean spoke sadly. "What would
General say, if he were here?"
The grave question rang like a clarion call in Marjorie's soul. A vision
of her father's merry, quizzical eyes grown suddenly sober and hurt over
the stubborn resistance of his little army was too much for her. One
mournfully appealing glance at the unyielding Mary and she burst forth
with, "I can't stand it any longer. I must speak. Last year,
when--when--Connie and I had so many unhappy days over my lost butterfly
pin I didn't write Mary about what was happening, because I felt
terribly and wished her to know only the pleasant side of my school
life. So she hadn't the least idea that Connie and I had become such
friends. She thought Connie was just a poor girl whom I tried to help
because I was sorry for her. When I asked Connie to come with us to the
station to meet Mary I was so happy to think they were going to meet
that I am afraid I made Mary believe that Connie had taken her place
with me. You know, Captain, that it couldn't be so. Mary has been and
always will be my dearest friend. I never dreamed she would become----"
Marjorie hesitated. She could not bring herself to say "jealous."
A smile of contempt curved Mary's lips. "Why don't you say 'jealous'?
That's what you mean," she supplemented.
"Very well, I will say it," rejoined Marjorie quietly. "I never dreamed
Mary would become jealous of my friendship with Connie. Before long I
noticed she was not quite her own dear self. Then she said something
that made me see that I ought to tell her all about last year, but I
didn't feel that it would be right until I had asked Connie's
permission. I told Mary I would do that very thing, but at Connie's
dance before I ever had a chance _she_ asked me not to say anything. She
was still so hurt over that affair of my pin that she was afraid Mary
might not like her so much if she knew. I didn't know what to do, then.
If I were to say that Mary had asked me to tell her, well--I thought
Connie might think her curious."
Mary made a half-stifled exclamation of anger. Then she shrugged her
shoulders with inimitable contempt and fixed her gaze on the opposite
wall, assuming an air of boredom she was far from feeling.
"Go on," commanded Mrs. Dean. Marjorie had hesitated at the
interruption.
"There isn't much more to tell," continued Marjorie bravely, "only that
Mignon came back to school and met Mary and made mischief. You know the
rest, Captain. You remember what I said to you the other day----"
"Then you _had_ told your mother things about me, already!" burst forth
Mary furiously. "Very well. You know what I said this morning. Just
remember it."
Marjorie gazed piteously at the angry girl. She could not believe that
Mary intended to carry out her threat of the morning.
"What did you say to Marjorie this morning?" inquired Mrs. Dean in cold
displeasure. She was endeavoring to be impartial, but her clear mental
vision pointed that it was not her daughter who was at fault.
Mary's reply was flung defiantly forth. "I said I'd never speak to her
again, and I won't! I won't!"
If Mary had expected Mrs. Dean either to order her to reconsider her
rash words or plead with her for reconciliation, she was doomed to
disappointment. "We will take you at your word, Mary," came the calm
answer. "Hereafter Marjorie must not speak to you unless you address her
first. Of course, it will be unpleasant for all of us, but I can see
nothing else to be done. You may write to your father if you choose. He
will undoubtedly write me in return, and naturally I shall tell him the
plain, unvarnished truth, together with several items of interest
concerning Mignon La Salle which cannot be withheld from him. I shall
not forbid you to continue your friendship with her. You are old enough
now to know right from wrong. So long as she does nothing to break the
conventions of society, I can condemn her only as a trouble-maker. My
advice to you would be to drop her acquaintance. When Constance returns
it would be well for you and Marjorie to invite her here and clear up
this difficulty. However, that rests with you. So far as General and I
are concerned, nothing is changed. We shall continue to the utmost to
fulfill your father's trust in us. Now, once and for all, we will drop
the subject. I must insist on no more bickering and quarreling in my
house. That applies to both of you."
"Please let me say just one thing more, Captain." Marjorie turned
imploring eyes upon her mother. "If Mary will let me bring Connie here,
when she comes back, I'm sure every cloud can be cleared away. Mary,"
her vibrant tones throbbed with tender sympathy, "won't you take back
what you've said and believe in me?"
For answer Mary Raymond rose from the table and left the room,
obstinately trampling friendship and good will under her wayward feet.
She had begun to keep her vow.