THE ROAD TO THE HEART’S DESIRE
Marjorie rode back to the ranch house in a kind of tender daze. She
heard Ronny’s and Mr. Lynne’s voices addressing her, and her own voice
answering them as far-off sounds. For one who had formerly never
understood love she could not but marvel at the great change within
herself. She was now experiencing the stillness of happiness of which
Constance had tried to tell her when she had confided to Marjorie the
news of her engagement to Lawrence Armitage. Constance had said then she
hoped Marjorie would some day fall in love with Hal. Marjorie smiled as
she recalled the half displeased reply she had made. How hard-hearted
she had been. She was remorseful now. Loving Hal with all the strength
of her fine nature she could not forgive herself for having caused him
so much of lover’s pain.
Alone in her high-ceilinged, luxurious sleeping room at the ranch house
she dropped hastily into a wicker arm chair and drew the cherished
letter from her pocket. Her smile was a thing of tender beauty as she
opened the envelope and extracted two closely written sheets of thick
gray paper. Hal’s letters to Marjorie had usually been brief affairs
until after the eventful spring evening when she had turned life from
drab to rose for him. Love had given his pen new impetus. With starry
eyes and heightened color Marjorie read his fond salutation:
“Dearest:
“Your latest letter told me the news I have been waiting
anxiously for. You are coming home soon. So glad you and General
and Captain expect to be at Severn Beach by the twelfth of
September. Connie and Laurie arrived here from New York last
week. You must have heard from Connie by now. I am planning a
moonlight stroll on the beach and a sail in the Oriole for the
same old six of us who went strolling and sailing on a certain
white moonlight night last summer; the unhappiest I have ever
known. So I am sure that our next stroll together in the
moonlight will be the happiest.
“It is such a long way to Manaña. I have to remind myself often
that the violet girl who made me a wonderful promise one night
at Hamilton Arms was real, and not a dream. I shall not be sure
of my good fortune until we meet again. You went away from me to
Ronny’s so soon after that enchanted night. I had not had time
to realize my great happiness. How came you to love me, I am
always wondering, when there seemed no hope? You will tell me
how it came to pass. Won’t you, sweetheart?
“There is so much I should like to say to you. I cannot write
it. Whenever I try to write you my whole thought is that I love
you and hope soon to see you.”
Marjorie read on, the starriness on her brown eyes softening to wistful
tenderness. The depth of Hal’s love for her filled her with a strange
tender humility. She could hardly believe herself worthy of such
devotion.
She sat immersed in her love dream until the tinkling chime of the
French clock on the mantel shattered it.
“_Seven_,” she counted in consternation, sentiment fading to dismay.
“And I’ve not started to change my riding togs yet. I’ll surely have to
hurry.”
Half past seven was the dinner hour at Manaña. Marjorie dropped a light
kiss upon Hal’s letter and hurriedly deposited it in a drawer of the
dressing table. She plumped down on a cushioned stool and began a quick
removing of her riding boots. By twenty minutes after seven she was
deftly hooking her slim form into a sleeveless white faille frock,
charmingly embroidered with little clusters of rosy double daisies. It
had been a present to her from Leila who was abroad with Vera, and had
come from “L’harmonie” the most exclusive shop in Paris. Marjorie, full
of devotion toward Hal, had picked out the gown to wear down to dinner
as somehow expressing her best in her happiness.
“Five minutes to spare.” She closed the last snap with satisfaction. “I
could do my hair a little smoother, but it’s pretty fair, Bean, pretty
fair.” She said this last aloud, laughing a little. It brought pleasant
memories of Jerry Macy.
She reopened the drawer, holding Hal’s letter with intent to read it
again. Then she remembered the other letter in the pocket of her riding
coat and went smiling into the small adjoining dressing room for it. She
was chipping open an end of its envelope when Ronny knocked on the door.
“Come,” Marjorie called.
Ronny opened the door and entered, her individually charming self in a
crystal-beaded white frock of chiffon.
“I forgot all about this letter.” Marjorie held up the square envelope.
“I—you see—the other was from Hal, and——”
“I understand perfectly.” Mischief gleamed in Ronny’s gray eyes. The two
girls laughed. “Go ahead and read the one Hal didn’t write. I give you
permission. Three minutes yet until the dinner ring.”
“Thank you, kind Ronny.” Marjorie made Ronny a gay little obeisance. “I
haven’t the least idea who it’s from.” Marjorie now had the letter out
of the envelope and was searching it for the signature. She found it,
stared at it in surprise, then cried: “This letter is from Leslie
Cairns. Pardon me while I read it.” A moment or two and she dropped into
a chair, glancing up at Ronny rather helplessly.
“Why, she has written the _last_ thing I’d expect her to write!” she
exclaimed wonderingly.
“Leslie Cairns always was a surprising person,” Ronny remarked with
good-humored satire. “Only her surprises were generally more startling
than agreeable.”
“I am sure she wouldn’t mind if I read you her letter. Wen Lo hasn’t
rung the bell yet. We still have a minute.” Marjorie commenced in a
brisk tone:
“DEAR MISS DEAN:
“My father and I lunched at the Arms with Miss Hamilton several
weeks ago and from her learned that you were visiting Miss Lynne
in California, at Lucero de la Manaña.
“We came West over a week ago on a flying business trip. My
father is trying to initiate me into the mysteries of
financiering. I find them decidedly intricate. We are now in San
Francisco, and staying at the Albemarle. Our telephone number is
Oakland 842. If you should come to San Francisco in the near
future will you not look me up?
“My real reason for writing, however, is this. We shall go East
before long in my father’s private car, the Speedwell. Can your
father and mother and you not arrange to be our guests on the
eastern journey? We shall be glad to suit our time for going
East to your own. It would be a great pleasure for my father and
me to meet your father and mother, and entertain them and you.
We are both ambitious to serve the interests of Hamilton. We
feel, that, aside from the pleasure of yours and your parents’
company, you will be able to teach us the way to be of use to
Hamilton College. We shall be in the neighborhood of the Lynne
ranch next Tuesday and will stop for a few moments to see you.
Think the matter over and be prepared to say ‘yes.’
“Cordially yours,
“LESLIE A. CAIRNS.”
“And Leslie Cairns wrote that letter!” Ronny made a gesture of
incredulity. “It seems hard to believe she isn’t Jeremiah’s Hob-goblin
any longer.”
“It seemed queer to me for a little while last June to think of her as a
friend,” Marjorie confessed. “That feeling soon died out of my mind.
After she took the stand she did about the Leila Harper Playhouse I had
a great deal of admiration for her. I knew she was truly sincere in her
resolve to be different.”
Marjorie referred to a certain decision at which Leslie had arrived
after she had visited Hamilton Arms in company with her father one day
during the previous spring. It was then Leslie had outlined to Marjorie
her generous proposal to erect a theatre on the site of her garage
“flivver” which she wished to name “The Leila Harper Playhouse.” The
theatre was to be owned and controlled by Leila with only the one
stipulation that whatever performances might be given in it should be
for the benefit of the Brooke Hamilton Dormitory.
Marjorie had then urged Leslie to permit her name to be given as the
donor of the theatre when it should be completed the following spring.
Leslie had confided to Marjorie her great desire that her father should
be named as the giver of the theatre. Her own unworthy record at
Hamilton College forbade her that pleasure. She had somberly argued that
mention of either her name or her father’s as the giver of the theatre
would serve only to recall her misdeeds and expulsion from Hamilton to
faculty and students alike. She had already disappointed her father too
greatly, she told Marjorie, without placing either him or herself in
line for further criticism.
“I’m going to tell you something, Ronny. Leslie gave me permission last
spring to use my own discretion in regard to keeping it a secret. Miss
Susanna and Jerry know. So does Robin. I’d rather the other girls
shouldn’t for awhile. You see it’s something wonderful for Leila. We
wish it to be a great surprise. She’s so quick to divine things. I’m
awfully afraid she may find it out unless I am very careful.” Marjorie
put Ronny in possession of Leslie’s pet plan.
“There ought to be some way, Ronny, to manage things so that Leslie or
her father—she’d rather it would be he—might be named as the giver of
the Leila Harper Playhouse at the dedication and presentation.” Marjorie
laid Leslie’s letter on the willow magazine stand with a little sigh.
“There will be.” Ronny made the assertion with positiveness. “What a
splendid thing for Leslie Cairns to wish to do! The way will open for
her. You’ll see. She is trying earnestly to think of everyone but
herself. And that is truly the only sure road to the heart’s desire.”
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