UNPOPULAR MARJORY
Twice a week, from half past seven to nine, there was dancing in the
dining room. The tables were pushed back and the floor waxed. Sallie
Dickinson had to help with that, so, though she loved to dance, she was
usually too tired to do it. Miss Julia Rhodes and the three Seniors took
turns at the piano. Miss Julia played “The Blue Danube,” and other
sentimental waltzes left over from her own rather remote girlhood. The
Seniors were much more modern. They played Sousa’s rousing marches with
so much vigor that even Mabel, who had never really learned to dance,
felt simply compelled to get up and two-step. And when _two_ of the
Seniors, at separate pianos, pounded out “The Washington Post,” stout
Miss Woodruff, who had been brought up to believe that it was wicked to
dance, kept time so vigorously with her feet that (in spite of her
hectic nightwear) she always suffered next day from rheumatism in her
plump ankles.
Mabel’s sense of rhythm was good and, for a heavy child, she proved
surprisingly light on her feet. At the same time she was clumsy and was
continually bumping into other dancers or getting in their way and being
bumped. Jean and Bettie danced only moderately well. Inexperienced Jean
was a trifle stiff as to knees and elbows and Bettie was not stiff
enough. Marjory was like a bit of thistledown, here, there and
everywhere, so that Jane Pool and little Lillian Thwaite were the only
persons sufficiently nimble to keep step with her.
Henrietta danced very well indeed. She had had several terms of dancing
lessons and was, besides, naturally graceful. As a partner, Henrietta
was in great demand. In the early months of the school year, all five of
the Lakeville girls had been fairly popular, but now, since soon after
the Christmas holidays, something was wrong. Except for the girls from
her own town, no one but Sallie, Maude Wilder and Jane Pool asked
Marjory to dance. Little Lillian Thwaite had even gone so far as to
refuse Marjory’s invitations.
“I’m engaged for _all_ the dances,” fibbed Lillian, glibly.
Marjory might have believed her if she had not later heard Lillian
asking Gladys for the next two-step. For some reason Marjory was
becoming more and more unpopular and the little girl was quite troubled
about it. Any little girl _would_ have been.
Gladys danced almost as well as Henrietta did; but Henrietta was the
pleasanter dancer to look at. She carried herself prettily, her clothes
seemed always just exactly right and Henrietta herself, with her
sparkling eyes, her vivid coloring, her dark, becoming curls, was always
an attractive sight. Gladys was invariably overdressed for these
occasions. Her hair was over-done and her complexion entirely unnatural.
She arched her back in an artificial way, crooked her elbows at curious
angles and managed to stick her left little finger out in a most
peculiar and quite ridiculous manner. Added to this, she invariably
chewed gum quite as industriously as she danced.
“It wouldn’t be so bad,” commented Mrs. Henry Rhodes, viewing this
spectacle with amusement, “if Gladys chewed in time to the music; but
she doesn’t.”
Even the frozen countenance of the older Mrs. Rhodes thawed into
something like a smile when Gladys danced and chewed. Still, apparently
many of the girls liked to dance with Gladys; but those who did held
aloof from the four Lakeville girls and more particularly from Marjory
and Mabel.
“I know what I think,” said Marjory, confiding in Mabel one evening when
they were the only girls who had not been asked by some one else to
waltz. “Laura Milligan has been saying things about us again, and more
and more of the girls are believing what she says. It gets a little
worse every dancing night. It’s terrible to be _unpopular_.”
“I know it,” agreed Mabel. “The only friends we have in this school now
are the girls that won’t associate with Laura. Maude just hates her and
so does Sallie. Jane Pool does, too. And I don’t think Victoria Webster
likes her any too well, even if she _does_ room with her.”
“The Seniors make fun of her,” said Marjory; “I’ve seen them do it. Miss
Wilson imitates the way she chews gum and Miss Pratt sticks her little
finger out the way Laura does. If Augusta wasn’t just a silly goose
herself she’d never waste a minute on Laura. And the Miller girls and
Isabelle haven’t as many brains in their three heads as little Jane Pool
has in her one—I heard Miss Woodruff tell them that in school yesterday.
And Grace Allen hasn’t any mind of her own at all. She just thinks what
Laura _wants_ her to think, and then passes it on.”
“The friends we have are _nice_ girls,” returned Mabel. “Maude, Cora,
Sallie and the others. Just the same it makes me just mad to be snubbed
and cold shouldered and left out by _anybody_.”
“Me too,” said Marjory. “I know you can’t waltz, but let’s get up and do
it anyway. We don’t need to _look_ like wallflowers even if we are.”
There was another evidence of Marjory’s growing unpopularity. Once in
two weeks there was a general spell down in the Assembly room. Some of
the girls loved it, some of them hated it, according to their ability to
spell; but they all quivered with excitement while it was going on.
Two of the Seniors marched importantly to the far corners of the room
from which point, turn and turn about, they chose sides; and of course
it was considered an honor to be among the first called—and a disgrace
to be among the last.
Jean and Marjory spelled very well indeed and were usually among the
first to be chosen. Mabel spelled just about as badly as anybody could
and was always the last. She _expected_ to be. She had grown accustomed
to her place at the end of the line and felt as if it belonged to her.
Bettie, Grace Allen, Augusta Lemon and Cora were easily downed; but
sometimes survived the first word. Isabelle Carew could spell if she
kept her mind on it, but once Miss Woodruff had given her the word
“Claritude,” and she had gone to dreaming in the middle of it. She
spelled it “Clar_ence_.” Of course, after that, everybody knew that
Isabelle could not be considered a dependable speller.
But Marjory was. Her ears were keen and she liked to spell. It was a
difficult matter to spell her down. Sometimes _both_ Seniors, in their
eagerness to get her, called her name in the same breath and then
squabbled just like ordinary girls over which should have her. But now,
for some undiscoverable reason, Marjory was being left with Mabel until
the very last moment—until every other possible girl had been chosen.
And this dreadful thing had happened _twice_.
The first time this happened, Marjory was so disconcerted that she
almost forgot how to spell the very easy word that fell to her lot. The
second time she was glad to hide behind tall Isabelle, who stood beside
her; for there was a large lump in her throat, tears in her gray eyes
and a tell-tale pink flush dyeing her small fair face from brow to chin.
Truly it was a terrible thing to be an unpopular person. Marjory wished
she could sink through the floor, even if she landed, as she thought she
_might_, in the laundry tubs beneath.