HOISTING THE FLAG OF TRUCE
Thanksgiving Day walked in amid a flurry of snow, accompanied by a
boisterous wind, which roared a bleak reminiscence of that first
Thanksgiving Day on a storm rock-bound coast, when a few faithful souls
had braved his fury and gone forth to give thanks for life and liberty.
Despite his challenging roar, the boys of Weston High School played
their usual game of football against a neighboring eleven and emerged
from the field of conquest, battered and victorious, to rest in the
proud bosoms of their families and devour much turkey. In the afternoon,
the long-talked-of game of basket ball came off between the sophomores
and the freshmen. It was an occasion of energetic color-flaunting, in
which black and scarlet banners predominated. It seemed as though almost
every one in Sanford High School, with the exception of the freshmen
themselves, was devoted heart and soul to the sophomores. The rumor of
the unfair treatment they had received in the deciding practice game had
been noised abroad, and Marjorie and her team mates were in a fair way
to be lionized. A packed gallery, much jubilant singing and frantic
applause of every move they made, spurred the black and scarlet girls to
doughty deeds, and, although it was a hard-fought battle, in which the
freshmen played for dear life, the sophomores won.
Altogether, it was a day long to be remembered, and Marjorie lived it
for all that lay within her energetic young body and mind. Only the one
flaw that marred its perfection and left her sober-eyed and
retrospective when the eventful holiday was ended. She felt that one
word of commendation from Mary would have been worth more than all the
praise she had received from admiring friends. But Mary was as stony and
implacable as ever, giving no sign of the surrender which Constance
Stevens had unconsciously nipped in the bud.
Just how Mary spent that particular Thanksgiving Day Marjorie did not
learn until long afterward. She knew only that Mary had left the house
directly after dinner, merely stating that she intended making several
calls, and was seen no more until ten o'clock that night, when she
flitted into the house like a ghost and vanished up the stairs to her
own room.
After Thanksgiving, basket ball echoes died out in the growing murmur of
coming Christmas joys, and like every young girl, Marjorie grew
impatient and enthusiastic over her holiday plans. She did not chatter
them as freely to General and Captain when at table as had been her
custom each year in the happy days when only they three had been
together. As her formerly lovable self, Marjorie would have felt no
reserve in Mary's presence, but this strange, new Mary with her white,
immobile face and indifferent eyes, chilled her and killed her desire to
exchange the usual gay badinage with her General, which had always made
meal-time a merry occasion.
"I don't like Mary's effect on our little girl, Margaret. Of late,
Marjorie is as solemn as a judge," remarked Mr. Dean one evening as he
lingered at the dinner table after Mary and Marjorie had excused
themselves and gone upstairs on the plea of studying to-morrow's
lessons. "I counseled Marjorie, the night I took her to Devon Inn to
dinner, to let matters work out in their own way. That was some time
ago. Perhaps I'd better take a hand and see what I can do toward ending
this internal war. Christmas will soon be here. We can't have our Day of
Days spoiled by one youngster's perversity."
"I have thought of that, too," returned Mrs. Dean, smiling, "and I have
a plan. I shall need your help to carry it out, though."
When she had finished the laying out of her clever scheme for a
congenial Christmas all around, Mr. Dean threw back his head in a hearty
laugh. "It's decidedly ingenious, and in keeping," was his tribute.
"I'll help you put it through, with pleasure. But after Christmas----"
He paused, his laughing eyes growing grave.
"After Christmas our services as peace advocates may not be needed,"
supplemented Mrs. Dean. "At least, I hope they may not. I am still of
the opinion, however, that Mary must be left to repent of her own folly.
If she is coaxed and wheedled into good humor she will never realize how
badly she has behaved."
"I suppose that is so. But, naturally, I am more interested in healing
our poor little soldier's hurts than in trying to bring a certain
stubborn young person to her senses. We will try out our idea. It will
insure one satisfactory day, I hope. Unless I prove a poor diplomat."
Although Marjorie's blithe voice was too frequently stilled in Mary's
presence, she was uniformly sunny when she and her Captain were alone
together. Now fairly familiar with Sanford, Mrs. Dean had made it a part
of her daily life to seek and assist certain families among the poor of
the little northern city. Now that Christmas was so near she was making
a special effort to gladden the hearts of those to whom life had seemed
to grudge even daily bread. She had contrived wisely to interest
Marjorie in this charitable work, with the idea of taking her mind from
the bitter disappointment Mary's change of heart had brought her, and
had been touched and gratified at the unselfish eagerness with which
Marjorie had taken up the work. The latter had aroused Jerry Macy's, as
well as Constance Stevens', interest in planning a merry Christmas for
the poor of Sanford. Constance was particularly desirous of helping. She
would never forget the previous Christmas Eve, when, laden with good
will and be-ribboned offerings, Marjorie had smilingly appeared at the
little gray house where Poverty reigned supreme and helped her transform
Charlie's rickety express wagon into a veritable fairy couch, piled high
with the precious tokens of unselfish love. She felt that the only way
in which she might show her lasting gratitude for the gifts of that
snowy Christmas Eve was to share her blessings with others who were in
need, and she quickly became Marjorie's most faithful servitor.
Good-natured Jerry was also keen to bestow her time and world goods in
the Christmas cause, and almost every afternoon when school was over the
three girls conspired together in the cause of happiness. Marjorie
unearthed a trunk of her childish toys from an obscure corner of the
garret, and a great mending and refurbishing movement ensued. Jerry, not
to be outdone, canvassed among her friends for suitable gifts to lay at
the shrine of Christmas, which rose to life eternal when three wise men
placed their reverent offerings at the feet of a Holy Child long
centuries before. While Constance Stevens drew largely on a sum of
money, which her indulgent aunt had placed in the bank to her credit and
enjoyed to the full the blessedness of giving.
"Maybe we haven't been busy little helpers, though," declared Jerry
Macy one blustering afternoon, as the three girls sat in the Deans'
living room, surrounded by ribbon-bound packages of all shapes and
sizes. "Truly, I never had such a good time before in all my life."
"That's just the way I feel," nodded Constance, as she tied an
astounding bow of red ribazine about an oblong package that
suggested a doll, and consulted a fat note book, lying wide
spread on the library table, for the address of the prospective
possessor. "Marjorie, will you ever forget how happy Charlie was
last year?"
"Dear little Charlie!" Marjorie's lips smiled tender reminiscence of the
tiny boy's jubilation over his wonderful discovery that Santa Claus had
not forgotten him. "His Christmas will be a merry one this year, even to
the good, strong leg that he hoped Santa would bring him."
"He can't possibly be any happier than he was _last_ Christmas morning,"
was Constance's soft reply. "And it was all through you, Marjorie."
"Oh, I wasn't the only one. Your father and you and Uncle John gave him
things, and Delia popped the corn for his tree, and, don't you remember,
Laurie Armitage brought you the tree and the holly and ground pine?"
Constance flushed slightly at the mention of Lawrence Armitage. A
sincere boy and girl friendship had sprung up between them that promised
later to ripen into perfect love.
"That reminds me," broke in Jerry bluntly. "I've something to tell you,
girls. Hal told me. He's my most reliable source of information when it
comes to news of Weston High. Laurie is writing an operetta. He's going
to call it 'The Rebellious Princess,' and he would like to give a
performance of it in the spring. There's to be a big chorus and
Professor Harmon is going to pick a cast from the boys and girls of
Weston and Sanford High Schools."
"Who is Professor Harmon?" asked Constance curiously.
"Oh, he's the musical director at Weston High," answered Jerry
offhandedly. "He looks after the singing and glee clubs there, just as
Miss Walters does at Sanford High. You can sing, Connie, and Laurie
knows it. I wouldn't be surprised if you'd get the leading part."
"I'd be more surprised if I did," laughed Constance, "considering that I
don't even know Professor Harmon when I see him."
"Laurie will introduce you to him, I guess," predicted Jerry
confidently. "Hal said something about a try-out of voices. I can't
remember what it was. I'll ask him when I go home."
"I don't believe I could even sing in a chorus," laughed Marjorie. "I
haven't a strong voice."
"You can look pretty, though, and _that_ counts," was Jerry's emphatic
consolation. "That's more than I can do. I can't see myself shine, even
in a chorus. I don't sing. I shout, and then I'm always getting off the
key," she ended gloomily.
Constance and Marjorie giggled at Jerry's funny description of her vocal
powers. The stout girl's brief gloom vanished in a broad grin.
"Two more days and Christmas will be here!" exclaimed Marjorie with a
joyous little skip, which caused a pile of packages on the floor near
her to tumble in all directions.
"Easy there!" warned Jerry. Secretly she was delighted at her friend's
lightsome mood. Marjorie had been altogether too serious of late.
Privately, she had frequently wished that Mary Raymond had never set
foot in Sanford.
The early December dusk had fallen when, the last package wrapped,
Constance and Jerry said good-bye to Marjorie. "I'll be over bright and
early Christmas morning," reminded Constance. "Remember, you are coming
to Gray Gables on Christmas night, Marjorie. Charlie made me promise for
you ahead of time. I'd love to have you come, too, Jerry."
"Can't do it. Thank you just the same, but the Macys far and near are
going to hold forth at our house and poor little Jerry will have to stay
at home and do the agreeable hostess act," declared Jerry, looking
comically rueful.
"I'll surely be there, Connie. I'll bring my offerings with me. Don't
you forget that you are due at the Deans' residence on Christmas
morning. Bring Charlie with you."
After her friends had gone, Marjorie went into the living room to
speculate for the hundredth time on the subject of Mary's present. It
was a beautiful little neckchain of tiny, square, gold links, similar to
one her Captain had given her on her last birthday. Mary had frequently
admired it in times past and for months Marjorie had saved a portion
from her allowance with which to buy it. She had a theory that a gift to
one's dearest friends should entail self-sacrifice on the part of the
giver. Mary's changed attitude toward her had not counted. She was still
resolved upon giving her the chain. But how was she to do it? And
suppose when she offered it Mary were to refuse it?
The entrance of her mother broke in upon her unhappy speculations. "I'm
glad you came, Captain," she said. "I've been trying to think how I had
best give Mary her present."
"Then don't worry about it any longer," comforted Mrs. Dean. Stepping
over to the low chair in which Marjorie sat she passed her arm about her
troubled daughter and drew her close. "That is a part of my plan. Wait
until Christmas morning and you will know."
"Tell me now," coaxed Marjorie, snuggling comfortably into the hollow of
the protecting arm.
"That would be strictly against orders," came the laughing response.
"Have patience, Lieutenant."
"All right, I will." Sturdily dismissing her curiosity, Marjorie began a
detailed account of the afternoon's labor, which lasted until Mr. Dean
came rollicking in and engaged Marjorie in a rough-and-tumble romp that
left her flushed and laughing.
Despite her many errands of good will and charity, the next two days
dragged interminably. On Christmas Eve Mr. Dean took his family and Mary
to the theatre to see a play that had had a long, successful run in New
York City the previous season and was now doomed to the road. After the
play they stopped at Sargent's for a late supper. Under Mr. Dean's
genial influence Mary thawed a trifle and even went so far as to address
Marjorie several times, to the latter's utter amazement. This was in
reality the beginning of Mrs. Dean's carefully laid plan. Marjorie
guessed as much and wondered hopefully as to what might happen next.
Nothing special occurred that evening, however, except that Mary bade
her a curt "good night." But Marjorie hugged even that short utterance
to her heart and went to sleep in a buoyantly hopeful state of mind.
She was awakened the next morning by a military tattoo, rapped on her
door by energetic fingers. "Report to the living room for duty,"
commanded a purposely gruff voice, which she was not slow to recognize.
"Merry Christmas, General," she called. "Lieutenant Dean will report in
the living room in about three minutes." Hopping out of bed she reached
for her bath robe. Then the sound of tapping fingers again came to her
ears. This time they were on Mary's door. Hastily drawing on stockings
and bed-room slippers, she sped from her room and down the stairs. Her
father stood stiffly at the foot of the stairway in his most
general-like manner. She saluted and came to attention. A moment or two
of waiting followed, then Mary appeared at the head of the stairs. She
began to descend slowly, but Mr. Dean called out, "No lagging in the
line," and long obedience to orders served to make her quicken her pace.
"Twos right, march," ordered Mr. Dean, motioning toward the living room.
Wonderingly the company of two obeyed. Then two pairs of eyes were
fastened upon a curious object that stood upright in the middle of the
living-room table. It was a good-sized flag of pure white.
"Form ranks!" came the order.
Two girlish figures lined up, side by side.
"Salute the Flag of Truce," commanded the wily General.
Mary gave an audible gasp of sheer amazement. Marjorie laughed outright.
"Silence in the ranks," bellowed the stern commandant. "Pay strict
attention to what I am about to say. In time of war it sometimes becomes
necessary to hoist a flag of truce. This means a suspense of
hostilities. The flag of truce is hoisted in this house for all day. It
will remain so until twelve o'clock to-night. Respect it. Now break
ranks and we'll enjoy our Christmas presents. I hope my army hasn't
forgotten its worthy General!"
"Mary," Marjorie's voice trembled. Tears blurred her brown eyes. "It's
Christmas morning. Will you kiss me?"
Mary was possessed with a contrary desire to turn and rush upstairs. She
felt dimly that to kiss Marjorie was to declare peace against her will.
But her better nature whispered to her not to ruin the peace of
Yuletide. She would respect the flag of truce for one day. Then she
could give Marjorie the ring she had bought for her before coming to
Sanford and laid away for Christmas. Afterward she would show her that
she had softened merely for the time being. She returned Marjorie's
affectionate kiss rather coolly. Nevertheless, the ice was broken.
Five minutes later she found herself running upstairs for her presents
for the Deans in an almost happy mood, and she joined in the present
giving with a heartiness that was far from forced. Once she had ceased
to resist Marjorie's winning advances she was completely drawn into the
divine spirit of the occasion, and she allowed herself to drift once
more into the dear channel of bygone friendship.
Marjorie fairly bubbled over with exuberant happiness. The unbelievable
had come to pass. She and Mary were once more chums. She longed to tell
Mary all that was in her heart, but refrained. For to-day it was better
to live on the surface of things. Later there would be plenty of time
for confidences. After breakfast she mentioned rather timidly that she
expected a call from Constance and little Charlie.
Mary received the statement with an apparent docility that brought
welcome relief to Marjorie. She was not sure of her chum on this one
point. When Constance and Charlie arrived at a little after ten o'clock,
burdened with gaily decked bundles, Marjorie's fears were set at rest.
To be sure, Mary showed no enthusiasm over Constance, but Charlie was a
different matter. She had conceived a strange, deep love for the quaint
little boy and spared no pains to entertain him. While she was putting
Marjorie's beautiful angora cat, Ruffle, through a series of cunning
little tricks, which he performed with sleepy indolence, Marjorie
managed to say to Constance, "I can't come to see you to-night, Connie.
I'll explain some day soon. You understand."
Constance nodded wisely. Nothing could have induced her to mar the
reconciliation which had evidently taken place. "Come when you can," she
murmured. Generously leaving herself out of the question, she purposely
shortened her stay, although Charlie pleaded to remain.
"I'll come again soon," he assured Mary, as he was being towed off by
his sister's determined hand. "I like you almost as well as Connie."
Marjorie's glorious day was over all too soon. She hovered about Mary
with a friendly solicitude that could not be denied. The latter
graciously allowed her the privilege, but behind her pleasant manner
there was a hint of reserve, which did not dawn upon Marjorie until late
that evening. At first she reproached herself for even imagining it, but
as bedtime approached the conviction grew that when twelve o'clock came
Mary would again resume her hostile attitude.
"It is time taps was sounded," reminded Mr. Dean, looking up from his
book, as the grandfather's clock in the living room pointed half past
eleven. Mrs. Dean sat placidly reading a periodical.
"We'll obey you, General, as soon as we've finished our game." Marjorie
looked up from the backgammon board at which she and Mary were seated.
It had always been a favorite game with them and Marjorie had proposed
playing to relieve the curious sensation of apprehension that was
gradually settling down upon her.
It was five minutes to twelve when she put the board away. Mary had
strolled to the living-room door. Pausing for an instant she said, as
though reciting a lesson, "I've had a lovely day. Thank you all for my
presents." Without waiting for replies, she turned and mounted the
stairs. The sound of a door, closed with certain decision, floated down
to the three in the living room.
Marjorie walked slowly to the table, and drawing the flag of truce from
its improvised standard, handed it to her father. "I knew it would end
like that, General," she commented sadly. "I felt it coming all evening.
Just the same it was a splendid plan, and I thank you for it." She
lingered lovingly to kiss her father and mother good night, then marched
to her room with a brave face. But as she passed the door that had once
more been closed against her she vowed within herself that from this
moment forth she would cease to mourn for the "friendship" of a girl who
was so heartless as Mary Raymond.