At the meeting of the Lookouts on the following evening, Constance
Stevens' thoughtful suggestion that the club rent the little house where
she had once lived and transform it into a day nursery, met the instant
approbation of every member except Mignon La Salle. She was far too
clever, however, to pit herself openly against the volume of approval
that rose to high tide. Only by the eloquent shrugging of her shoulders
and the ominous glitter of her black eyes did she betray her contempt
for the project. She resolved within herself that no amount of
persuasion should induce her to contaminate her precious person for one
moment by an association with those "horrible slum children." These
idiotic girls might do as they chose, so would she. On whatever
afternoon she should be detailed for duty in this detestable day
nursery, she would find some good excuse for evading it.
It would take at least a month, she reasoned, to prepare the house for
its small guests. By that time she might have become tired of the club.
Still she rather liked her office of treasurer. It made her feel very
important to know that the financial affairs of the club were in her
hands. The Lookout Club had deposited its funds in the First National
Bank of Sanford. She had been officially introduced to its president and
duly authorized to deposit or draw out money from it in their name. If
she resigned from the club now she would forfeit the privilege to use
the check-book which had been given her. The club would soon begin to
make frequent demands upon her for money with which to meet the various
financial obligations which the furnishing of the day nursery would
incur. Mignon decided that she would adroitly shirk the unpleasant
duties of the club, but still retain her office. So long as she proved
herself to be an efficient treasurer the girls might grumble as much as
they pleased about her other shortcomings. At best they were too
stupidly set on fair play to demand her resignation.
Intimate association with Rowena Farnham had developed Mignon's fund of
trickery to the nth power. Rowena had taught her how to play a subtle
game as long as mere subtlety would answer the purpose. If there came a
time when it proved unavailing, she would leave these babies in the
lurch as boldly and defiantly, as Rowena had once performed the same
unscrupulous office for herself. Contrary to all expectation, Rowena had
taken the news of Mignon's advent into the club with admirable
tranquility. For reasons best known to herself, she had adopted this
plan of action. Mignon's letter informing her of the French girl's
sudden rise in popularity had merely caused her to throw back her head
and laugh; a sure sign that she meant mischief.
Meanwhile, unconscious of the treacherous thoughts that settled in the
brain of their graceless treasurer, thirteen girls were working heart
and hand after school hours toward perfecting their cherished plan. The
last of October found it nearing completion. The little house in which
Constance had once dwelt had taken on a new lease of life. From cellar
to roof it was a vision of shining cleanliness and order. The large room
where the children were to play looked like a veritable kindergarten.
Rows of sturdy plants decked the spotless windows, uncurtained in order
to permit the greatest possible amount of light. The two long tables
flanked by rows of cunning little chairs, stood ready to receive the
coming residents. All sorts of toys had been unearthed from countless
trunks in which reposed the treasures of the members' own early days,
now offered at the shrine of childhood. The kitchen had been fitted out
completely, and its ample cupboard boasted of a new set of pretty
dishes. Upstairs the rest room, with its four tiny white beds and
spotless appointments, was a joy to behold.
Marjorie, Jerry, Constance and Irma had diligently gone the rounds of
the squalid mill neighborhood, announcing the creation of the nursery to
the stolid, wondering inhabitants, and graciously inviting them to bring
their children to partake of its benefits. Youngsters from two years of
age to six were placed on the eligible list and to the care-worn toilers
this enticing offer seemed too good to be true. The nursery was
scheduled to open on Saturday afternoon, the first of November. A
competent elderly woman and a strong, willing maid had been secured and
so far as they knew the Lookouts had left nothing undone that might add
to the welfare of their tiny charges.
"Really, children, I think we've earned our Hallowe'en party to-night!"
exclaimed Marjorie Dean, as in company with Jerry, Irma, Muriel, Susan
Atwell and Constance they left the nursery, to which they had repaired
after school for a last fond survey of their pet.
"Please hurry over to our house early," requested Jerry. "This is to be
a weird and awesome night when spirits walk abroad and witches ride the
air on broomsticks. Don't one of you dare to forget to bring a broom
with you."
"Very mysterious," giggled Susan. "I suppose you've fixed up some
awesome sights for our timid eyes. You're awfully stingy not to tell us
a thing about it beforehand. All we know is that we're to wear black
masks and black dominos, and each bring a broom."
"All shall be revealed to you in due season." Jerry raised a dramatic
arm, then dropped it and grinned tantalizingly.
"Never mind," consoled Marjorie. "We haven't long to wait. It's five
o'clock now. Three hours more and we'll be in the thick of weird,
mysterious happenings."
"Three hours is as long as three days when one's curiosity is whetted to
a sharp point," laughed Irma. "Those queer, phosphorescent invitations
of yours, Jerry, were enough to keep us guessing what the rest of the
party would be like."
"Some invitations," chuckled Jerry. "The Crane put me on; I mean gave me
the idea for them."
"When mine came, I opened it and thought somebody had sent me a
queer-looking bit of paper for a joke," confessed Susan, "so I threw it
in the waste basket. I had the pleasure of hunting through the basket
for it the next day, after Marjorie had explained it to me." This
sheepish admission was followed by Susan's inevitable giggle, and five
voices immediately echoed it.
With the happy prospect of the grand opening of the nursery on the
morrow and Jerry's delightful Hallowe'en frolic that evening, the
sextette of girls was in high spirits as they sauntered along in the
sharp, October air. Marjorie could hardly remember a time when she had
felt more utterly at peace with the world. A quiet happiness permeated
her whole being, and she was filled with the sense of satisfaction which
the performance of a good deed always brings.
Seven o'clock saw her slipping into the exquisite peachblow evening
frock of shimmering silk which she was to wear to the party under her
domino, nor could she be other than pleasantly elated at the story her
mirror told her. Her curls arranged in a low, graceful knot at the back
of her shapely head, her cheeks glowing with excitement and her brown
eyes two pools of radiant light, Marjorie could not be blamed for taking
a pardonable pride in her appearance. She heaved a soft little sigh of
regret as she covered the glory of her new frock with a somber domino,
and hid her witching face behind a black mask. Then she ran lightly
downstairs, stopping in the hall to annex the new broom Delia had left
there for her.
"I'm ready, Captain," she called in deep, sepulchral tones, as she
paused in the doorway of the living room where her mother sat reading.
Sight of the sinister figure and sound of the hollow voice startled Mrs.
Dean briefly, as she glanced up from her book.
Marjorie's merry laugh rang out as she hastily stripped off the
concealing domino and mask. "I thought I could scare you," she teased.
"Now tell me that I look very gorgeous and kiss me good-bye, for I must
hurry along to the land of spooks and witches."
"Remember, fine feathers don't make fine birds," retaliated her mother,
fond admiration of her pretty daughter in her sweeping survey of the
dainty vision before her.
"That means I look specially nice," translated Marjorie. "Thank you,
Captain." Holding the broom rifle fashion, she brought one hand to her
forehead in brisk salute. "Now the gallant army is off duty for a
pleasant evening. I hope I haven't kept General waiting." Marjorie
hastily resumed her cloak and mask.
"Ask him," smiled her mother as she accompanied her to the door. Lifting
the flap of the mask she kissed Marjorie tenderly. "Have a good time,
dear, and come home in good season."
"What have we here!" exclaimed Mr. Dean in mock horror as a weird,
black-robed figure, bearing the proverbial witch's broom, advanced down
the walk toward the automobile in which he was seated. "Must I show the
white feather and flee from this ghastly apparition?"
"You must _not_," emphasized a very human young voice. "Stand your
ground or be court-martialed."
"I won't budge an inch. I prefer the company of shades, rather than lose
my prestige as an invincible general," flung back Mr. Dean valiantly.
Helping Marjorie to a seat beside him in the limousine, and carefully
disposing the broom in the tonneau, they were soon speeding down the
road to cover the short distance that lay between the homes of the two
families. A continual ripple of most unspectre-like laughter proceeded
from behind the black mask as they scudded along. Between Marjorie and
her father the serious side of life seldom rose. Whenever they were
together, they invariably behaved like two gleeful children out for a
holiday.
"Now go and keep company with the other horrors of Hallowe'en," was Mr.
Dean's parting comment as he set Marjorie down at the gate, kissed her
and handed her the broom.
"Just watch me go," she called back merrily, turning to flaunt the broom
in fantastic salute as she flitted up the long walk to the dimly lighted
house. "Things certainly have a ghostly look," she decided as she rang
the bell.
The next instant she uttered a sharp little cry as the door opened and a
frisky imp in a tight-fitting suit of black seized her by the hand and
hauled her inside. From the shadowy hall a tall sheeted form loomed up
before her, giving vent to a deep groan. Before she could do more than
gasp, her lively conductor had possessed himself of her broom, decorated
it with a piece of wide blue ribbon, pinned a rosette of similar ribbon
to her domino, both of which he snapped up from a tray held by the
sheeted spectre. Then he whisked her into what had formerly been the
Macys' living room. It was now transformed into a huge cavern, dimly
lighted by grinning Jack-o'-lanterns. Masked and black-garbed figures
flitted about its spacious confines at will. In one corner of the room
stood a tripod, from which hung a large kettle. Around the kettle danced
three terrifying figures who might easily have been identified as the
weird sisters who appeared to the ill-starred Macbeth.
Straight to the fatal witch rendezvous Marjorie was towed by her
insistent guide. Pausing in her grotesque dance, one of the weird
sisters seized a cup from a number of others which stood on a small
table near the tripod. Flourishing it, she pounced upon a small ladle
that stood upright within the utensil. Dipping it into the steaming
contents of the kettle, she filled the cup and offered it to Marjorie.
"Drink ye the witches' deadly brew," she croaked.
The "witches' deadly brew" proved to be very excellent chicken bouillon,
which did not come amiss after Marjorie's ride in the cool autumn air.
By the time she had finished it, her goblin conductor had scurried away
to answer the ring of the door bell, leaving her to mingle with the
other sinister shapes that wandered singly or in twos and threes about
the room. As everyone was firmly bent on keeping his or her identity a
secret, conversation languished among that mysterious company. It was
comparatively easy to distinguish the masculine portion of the
assemblage from the feminine, however, by reason of height and the
mannish shoes that were worn by at least half of the dominoed guests.
For at least fifteen minutes after Marjorie's arrival, the helpful imp
was compelled to do constant duty at the front door, and the impromptu
cavern soon overran with its strange, uncanny occupants. In the midst of
their perambulations a reverberating peal of manufactured thunder rent
the air and the zealous imp skipped into the room.
"Friends and fellow spooks," he declaimed in a high, piping voice, "I am
the humble servitor of the Spirit of Hallowe'en. Come with me and I will
show you the Cavern of Illusion where she awaits you!"
The humble servitor pranced down the long hall to the Cavern of
Illusion, once the back parlor, an eager crowd of somber-looking
followers at his heels. It was an orderly rush, however, although the
fell silence that had pervaded the company at first was now broken by
murmurs of subdued speech and frequent giggles. The Cavern of Illusion
was in absolute darkness except at one end, where a square of white,
presumably a sheet, stretched itself in the form of a screen. A faint
light from behind it caused it to stand out clearly against the
surrounding blackness.
"The Spirit of Hallowe'en," shrilled the imp, who had stationed himself
close to the screen. Hardly had he spoken the words when a long roll of
thunder sounded and a fantastic shape in the high-peaked hat and
circular cloak that betokens the legendary witch of All Hallow's night,
leaped upon the screen. On one shoulder perched a black cat and in one
hand she bore a broom stick. Making a sweeping curtsey, she disappeared
from the screen, to reappear instantly minus cat and broomstick.
Curtseying again, she began a dance, fantastic in the extreme, but
singularly graceful. She dipped, whirled and swayed, using her cloak
with pleasing effect, and ended the performance by apparently flying
straight upward to disappear at the top of the screen.
The wild burst of ardent applause that followed her clever terpsichorean
effort pointed to the fact that the masked audience was at least
possessed of very human young throats. The Spirit of Hallowe'en
declined, however, to respond to the frantic demonstration, and a moment
later the imp's falsetto tones made themselves heard above the din.
"Follow me to the Hall of Fate," he ordered. "There the Three Weird
Sisters tarry to wail the Chant of Destiny."
This invitation conveyed the information that where the fateful kettle
simmered under the guardianship of the weird three must undoubtedly be
the Hall of Fate. The guests did not wait to follow, but made a bee-line
for it, at least half of them reaching it ahead of their obliging master
of ceremonies. Once they had gathered there the Weird Sisters
entertained them with a spirited dance about the kettle, to the
accompaniment of an unearthly chant, pitched in a minor key.
At the conclusion of it a terrific burst of thunder broke and the Hall
of Fate became suddenly flooded with light.
"All aboard for the ball room!" shrieked the imp in a voice that
strongly resembled that of Danny Seabrooke. "The Test of True Love will
presently be held there."
This astonishing statement raised a shout of laughter. The young folks
needed no second urging, however, as they willingly mounted the two
flights of stairs after the imp, who skipped nimbly ahead of them, while
the Three Weird Sisters brought up the rear. The apartment used by Hal
and Jerry for a ball room, when entertaining their friends, was situated
on the third floor of the east wing of the house. It was especially
large and airy, with a beautifully polished floor, and, therefore, well
suited to the purpose. Jerry always referred to it as the "town hall"
and took considerable pleasure in the possession of it.
Arriving in the ball room, the maskers found that the four musicians
hired to play for the dancing were already at their post. Despite their
curiosity as to what particular ordeal awaited them in the cause of true
love, the enticing measures of a waltz sent the masculine portion of the
company scurrying for partners. It was not until the fifth dance was
over that the imp staggered into their midst, heavily laden with a
freight of beribboned brooms. Depositing them in a corner he promptly
disappeared, to return presently with a second load. By that time the
sixth dance had ended, and the dancers were beginning to murmur
concerning their masks, which were becoming rather too concealing for
comfort. Then, too, nearly everyone had come into a fair knowledge
regarding the identities of at least part of his or her companions.
It was, therefore, wholly to their liking when the ubiquitous imp
marched to the center of the floor and declaimed in true Danny Seabrooke
fashion: "Damsels of the Domino, please line up across the floor. The
Test of True Love is about to begin." His next order, "Knights of the
Domino, your fiery steeds await you! Kindly march in line to the corner
and select your steed, then find your partner for the evening!" evoked a
tumult of laughter. The Test of True Love promised to be decidedly
amusing.