QUEENIE’S DAY OFF.
The bright morning sunlight streamed into Marjorie’s room, as she sat
up in bed, a week later, finishing her dainty breakfast, and watching
expectantly for Queenie. The girl’s first visit in the morning was the
most pleasant event of her quiet days during her convalescence; Queenie
always seemed radiant as she entered, bearing interesting news of the
outside world.
This morning she ran up the stairs two steps at a time, her hands
filled with letters and flowers. Darting over to the bed, she piled
them all on top of Marjorie, while she stooped over to kiss her hair.
“Just look how much everybody loves you, Cap!” she exclaimed. “I think
there must be a dozen letters—and two new boxes of flowers!”
Marjorie’s eyes shone with happiness; it was worth while to be ill, to
find out how much every one cared.
“You open the flowers, Queenie,” she said, “and I’ll begin on the
letters. Let’s go slowly—I like to make them last as long as I can.”
“Maybe you’ll have some real visitors today,” observed the younger
girl. “The doctor said you might have two, you know.”
“I wonder,” mused Marjorie. She was thinking of John, and trying to
understand why he had sent no message.
“Which two would you choose, if you could have anybody you wanted,
Cap?” ventured Queenie.
“Lil, of course, first of all!” she answered emphatically.
“Lilies of the valley from her!” cried Queenie, delighted at the
coincidence of the donor’s name with the flowers she had just opened.
“Why, she sends you flowers every other day, doesn’t she?”
“I guess she has—even when I was too ill to realize it. Her roses are
still fresh.”
Marjorie turned to her mail, and read three lively letters from college
friends. Then she could restrain her curiosity no longer concerning the
other box of flowers.
“It’s a man’s card,” observed Queenie, as she handed Marjorie the tiny
envelope accompanying a huge bunch of snapdragon. “I can tell by the
shape.”
Marjorie’s fingers trembled as she pulled open the flap; but upon
reading the name a sharp look of disappointment spread over her
countenance.
“Walter Richards,” she repeated mechanically. “How very nice.”
Queenie raised her eyes quickly, recalling her own jealousy on a former
occasion when she had thought the scout master infatuated with her
pretty captain. But there could be no doubt now that if the young man
did entertain any such hopes, they would not be encouraged. Marjorie
could not conceal her disappointment.
“Now read the rest of your letters,” Queenie advised her tenderly.
“They’re all from college girls,” she said, “except one—from Ethel
Todd, one of our old scouts. I recognize their handwriting.”
Queenie busied herself with the flowers, changing the water in the old
ones, filling other vases for the new bouquets that had just arrived.
When she had finished, Marjorie tossed her letters aside and settled
back in her pillows.
“Queenie, here’s one for you—I found it under the quilt,” she
remarked. “Looks like a man’s handwriting!”
The girl blushed and took the letter with feigned indifference.
“It’s from Mr. Richards,” she said calmly. “He often sends me lists of
books—and things like that.”
“Oh, I see!” nodded the other girl, restraining a smile.
Queenie opened the letter deliberately, but as she started to read it,
a look of happiness crept over her face.
“He wants me to meet him in town tomorrow,” she announced, as she read
on, “and take lunch with him—and—and——Miss Wilkinson, may I go?”
“You certainly may! And what’s more, you can pick out the best looking
suit and hat I own to wear! Why, it’ll be almost like going out myself
to have my clothes get an airing.”
Queenie threw her arms about Marjorie, overcome by her sense of
gratitude.
“I don’t deserve that you should be so good to me, Cap! I
don’t—really!”
“You certainly do! Nobody needs a holiday more than you. Just look how
you sat up with me those nights after the night nurse was called away!
I want you to go and have the best time ever!”
For the next half hour both girls thoroughly enjoyed themselves while
Queenie tried on all of Marjorie’s street costumes. At last they both
agreed upon a trim little dark blue serge, made with straight lines and
a cunning taffeta toque to match.
“I’m going to pull the hat way down over my eyes,” she remarked, “and
see if I can fool any of your friends, if I meet them. It would be such
fun to have somebody rush up and kiss me, and call me ‘Marjorie.’”
“You flatter me, Queenie. You know I’m a lot older than you.”
“But you don’t look it!” flashed the other immediately.
She was not to leave for the city until the eleven o’clock train the
following morning, so the girls had plenty of time for their hour
together after breakfast. Queenie had a share in the excitement this
time, for the florist’s messenger brought her a box of flowers in
addition to Marjorie’s gifts.
“Violets!” she exclaimed, “from Mr. Richards. He wants me to wear them
today.”
Marjorie looked on a trifle enviously; she was missing her violets more
each day. For somehow, with her, violets were always associated with
John Hadley.
Queenie was off at last, looking sweeter than Marjorie had ever seen
her look. Perhaps the girl herself was aware of it, or perhaps it was
merely the beauty of the April day and the flowers in her belt; but
whatever it was she smiled quietly to herself all the way into the
city. She found Mr. Richards on the platform, watching for her amid the
stream of people that poured out of the suburban train.
“My, it’s good to see you!” he cried recognizing her from a distance by
the violets, rather than by her general appearance. “You didn’t breathe
a word of it to Miss Wilkinson?”
“Not a word—though I almost made a slip the very first thing. I was
reading your letter in her room, and told her you wanted to meet me in
town—and I almost told her why!”
“You’re sure you didn’t?” he inquired, searchingly. Like most men he
did not believe that girls could keep secrets.
“No—honor bright! Besides, it may all come to nothing. And I wouldn’t
want to disappoint Miss Wilkinson.”
“I think it’s going to pan out all right,” the young man replied with
assurance. “Your consent was all that was needed and since you think
you’ll like it——”
“Sh!” warned Queenie. “Don’t even let’s talk about it in public, till
it’s a sure thing. We might see somebody we know.”
They were making their way along a crowded street now, so crowded
that Richards felt obliged to take Queenie’s arm, to keep from being
separated. Neither had been paying much attention to the passers-by,
but hardly were the words out of the girl’s mouth, than they came face
to face with John Hadley!
“Marjor—I beg your pardon,” he stammered, realizing his mistake, “I am
very sorry, but I thought——”
Queenie’s laugh rang out clearly, in spite of the publicity of the
place.
“Mr. Hadley!” she exclaimed, seizing his hand, and dragging him aside
from the crowd. “It’s Miss Wilkinson’s clothes, that’s why you thought
it was her. But now I’ve got you, I want to ask you why you’ve been
such a quitter? You, of all people!”
John tried to be angry, but he felt his resentment melting at the
girl’s earnestness.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“What do I mean? Miss Wilkinson at death’s door, so hundreds of her
friends were telephonin’ and sendin’ flowers day and night, and not
even the price of a two-cent stamp would you spend to find out how she
was! Even if you had been mad at her, common decency ought to have made
you ask after her, when she’s been that sick!”
In spite of the force of her words, Queenie kept her voice lowered,
so soft, indeed, that Mr. Richards did not catch the portent of the
conversation. Instead of being angry now, John was intensely alarmed.
Had Marjorie really been ill, then, and he had not taken the trouble
to find out! His face turned deathly pale at the thought of what might
have happened.
It was his turn to clutch Queenie’s arm.
“Is she all right now? Tell me quick, Queenie!”
“She’s sitting up in bed,” replied the girl stiffly. “But far from
well.”
“Do you suppose I could see her?”
“Yes, if your ‘business’ lets you,” she replied sarcastically. “I
understand it took you out of town the very day she was the worst!”
“I didn’t know it. I swear I didn’t!”
“But you called at the house the night before—and the hired girl told
you.”
“I didn’t believe her,” John admitted sheepishly. “I was sure I saw her
go out with—Richards.”
The corners of Queenie’s mouth drooped in a smirk, as she suddenly
understood the cause of John’s absence. He must have mistaken her for
Marjorie, the night that she wore her gray dress and cloak! In a word
she explained the situation.
“But you’re a big boob, just the same, Mr. Hadley, and you ought to be
ashamed of yourself for havin’ so little faith. Now run along, and make
up for lost time. We got a date ourselves.”
They hurried off to their mysterious engagement, which resulted
entirely to their satisfaction, and proceeded leisurely to a hotel
for luncheon. They lingered over it as long as they could, Richards
expressing his regret that he could not devote the rest of the
afternoon to Queenie’s amusement.
“You’ve done enough for me today, Mr. Richards,” she replied
appreciatively. “It’s been the happiest day of my life.”
“You deserve it,” he returned, “you spent a good part of it in making
three other people happy.”
“Three?” she repeated in perplexity.
“John Hadley, Marjorie Wilkinson—and——” he helped her into the
train—“and me!”
The next moment he had disappeared.