[Illustration:
Phil, as the fiddler, presently came forward to play for the dance.
(_Page 114_) (_Marjorie Dean at Hamilton Arms_)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MARJORIE DEAN
AT HAMILTON ARMS
BY PAULINE LESTER
AUTHOR OF
“The Marjorie Dean High School Series,” “The
Marjorie Dean College Series,” “The Marjorie
Dean Post-Graduate Series,” etc.
[Illustration]
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Printed in U. S. A.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE MARJORIE DEAN
POST-GRADUATE SERIES
A SERIES FOR GIRLS 12 TO 18 YEARS OF AGE
BY PAULINE LESTER
MARJORIE DEAN, POST-GRADUATE
MARJORIE DEAN, MARVELOUS MANAGER
MARJORIE DEAN AT HAMILTON ARMS
MARJORIE DEAN’S ROMANCE
Copyright, 1925
By A. L. BURT COMPANY
MARJORIE DEAN AT HAMILTON ARMS
Made in “U. S. A.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MARJORIE DEAN AT
HAMILTON ARMS
CHAPTER I.
WAITING FOR MARJORIE
“They’ll be here before long.” Jerry Macy’s eyes calculatingly consulted
the wall clock.
“And, oh, what a surprise!” Veronica Lynne spoke from the deeps of her
own mischievous enjoyment.
“It’s going to be an occasion of surprises,” predicted Lucy Warner with
the solemnity of a young owl. “Now why are you laughing, Muriel?” This
very severely as she caught sight of Muriel Harding’s mirthful face and
heard sound of her soft chuckle.
“Why am I laughing? You know better, Luciferous Warniferous, than ask me
such a—well—such a leading question.” Muriel failed to make her laughing
features match her reproving tones.
“You’re both up to mischief. Think I don’t know the signs?” Jerry
accused with a long-suffering air. “Luciferous looks too solemn to be
true and _your_ special variety of giggle is a dead give-away.”
“What special variety?” demanded Muriel with blank innocence.
“I wouldn’t attempt to classify it,” was Jerry’s withering retort. “I
can only say, ‘it is.’”
“Of course it is.” Muriel light-heartedly furnished a rippling little
sample. “Hark!” she held up an arresting hand. “Someone’s coming.”
Three energetic raps on the door followed her announcement. Then the
door opened sufficiently to admit the laughing face of Leila Harper.
“Enter the Empress of Wayland Hall,” Leila heralded. She flung the door
wide and bowed in Miss Remson. She and Vera Mason followed the little
manager. Dressed in her best black satin gown, Miss Remson appeared
signally amused at the honors done her. Leila was wearing an exquisite
frock of orchid broadcloth. Vera, doll-like and dainty, looked like a
cunning Dresden figure in a frock of gentian blue taffeta, the faint
blue field scattered thickly with tiny pink rosebuds. Their light-hued
dresses pointed to a celebration, as did those of the other girls
gathered in ever-hospitable Room 15.
“The Empress of Wayland Hall.” Jerry bowed to the floor, pretended to
lose her balance, but miraculously recovered it without accident. “Allow
me to conduct you to the throne.” She offered her arm at a stiff angle.
“Bow down, all the rest of you. Where are your court manners?” She
briskly arraigned the smiling empress’s openly giggling subjects.
“Kindly give us a sample of court etiquette,” Ronny begged with mock
humility.
“I thought I had.” Jerry exhibited deep surprise. “Am I crazy, or are
you blind?”
“Ahem! My eye-sight is exceptionally keen,” Ronny said sweetly.
“I’ll have it out with you later,” promised Jerry. “Now don’t interrupt
me again in the midst of my royal duties. Will your majesty please be
seated?” She turned gallantly to the empress. “I would call your
attention to the throne. Observe it closely. Would you even suspect it
of having been ever anything but a throne?”
“_Never_,” Miss Remson made gratifying assurance. She feigned the most
flattering admiration for the throne. It was composed of Jerry’s couch
as a foundation, with all the bedding from Marjorie’s couch stacked upon
it. Ronny had contributed a wonderful cloth of gold couch cover which
her father had lately sent her from Lower California. Each one of the
festive group had contributed her pet sofa pillows. Three fat velvet
ones had been laid on the floor in front of the dais. The throne had
blossomed into additional gorgeousness by the profusion of rich-hued
pillows which graced it.
“It is a gorgeous and most imposing structure,” pronounced Miss Remson,
her eyes dancing as she surveyed the metamorphized couch. She prodded
its up-piled softness with an investigating hand, then raised herself
with a nimble little spring to the place on the right to which Jerry had
obsequiously bowed her.
“Thank you for them kind words. Praise is sweet, particularly when there
are those about who are shy of proper appreciation. I won’t mention any
names, your Majesty. I’m not speaking of myself, or you, either. I have
too much delicacy to make disrespectful remarks about _us_.” Jerry
peered knowingly at her majesty who nodded significant return.
“I trust your Majesty will not see fit to show partiality,” Ronny said
very severely. “All here are entitled to your royal favor.”
“I see already the difficulties which attend royalty.” Miss Remson made
a dismayed gesture.
“Don’t let it agitate you,” said Jerry. “Such—” She broke off to answer
the door. Robin Page flitted across the threshold with a frisky little
bounce. “Almost late! Not quite, thank fortune.” She glanced about the
room with visible relief. “They haven’t come yet. I was so afraid I’d
miss the fun. Two Craig Hall seniors called on me. They asked me to sing
at a musicale they intend to give after the holidays. Miss French, one
of them, has discovered a prodigy at Craig Hall. She’s a freshie named
Miss Oliver. She can play divinely on the piano. But she is shy, and
hangs backward when she should come forward. No one at Craig Hall
suspected her of being a musical genius until one night last week.”
“Oh, I know her,” cried Muriel. “She’s a little girl with black straight
hair and gray-blue eyes. I danced with her at the freshman frolic. She
seemed to be rather timid, so I thought I’d encourage her by putting
down my name on her card for three dances. I danced one with her then
she suddenly disappeared and didn’t re-appear. I inquired for her. Some
of the freshies said she was shy. Some said she was snippy. I didn’t
think her the least bit snippy. I wrote a note to her on the strength of
her being shy. She answered it in about two lines. That was rather
snippy, I thought. Now I am all at sea about her. Is she shy, or is she
snippy? That is the question.” Muriel ended with a laugh.
“She’s bashful,” Robin declared. “Wait until I salute the Empress of
Wayland Hall, and I’ll tell you more of her.” Robin knelt on a plump
blue velvet cushion at Miss Remson’s feet. The manager had thriftily set
a small foot on each side of the cushion rather than use it as a foot
rest. “Please pardon your admiring subject for being so neglectful.” She
kissed the manager’s hand in approved gallant style. “Let me venture to
remark, noble lady: Your throne is a daisy. Why oh, why, am I not of
royalty?”
“Everyone can’t be. We’d not have thrones enough to accommodate the
royal gang, if you all qualified,” Jerry pertinently reminded.
“Restrain your ambitions,” advised Lillian Wenderblatt cruelly.
“I’ll make a stagger at it,” sighed Robin. “Now let me finish telling
you about my musical freshie before the rest of the royal party arrive.
Where was I?”
“Your last remark on the subject was that no one had suspected Miss
Oliver of being a musical genius until one night last week,” repeated
Katherine Langly in her quiet, accurate fashion. “See what splendid
attention _I_ was paying to you.”
“I’m charmed by it,” Robin gushed. “There are times, Kathie, when you
are almost respectful to me. One might think, that, having gained such
gratifying respect from a member of the faculty, I should be more than
entitled to marks of respect from lesser college lights. Not so.” Robin
looked vaguely about, not daring to allow her eyes to stop at any single
member of the grinning group of girls.
“Another unhappy subject with a chip on her shoulder.” Jerry waved a
hand toward Robin, thumb out.
“It behoves the lesser lights of college to be very careful upon whom
they shine.” Lillian’s chin was raised to a painfully dignified angle.
“I wonder just _who_ the lesser lights of college are?” Muriel said in a
sweet child-like voice.
“As Empress it appears my duty to quell such disturbances as may lead to
internal war in the kingdom,” put in the helpful Empress.
“Please, your Majesty, I want to keep on talking,” instantly petitioned
Robin. “Kindly order this gang—pardon me, I mean your unruly subjects—to
listen to me. Make them understand that if they don’t listen _now_, I
sha’n’t tell them a single thing later.”
“We got that, your Majesty. Will you allow me to implore your miffed
courtier to go right ahead. So pleased.” Jerry favored Robin with her
far-fetched conception of a gracious smile.
“I can’t resist such a dazzling display of teeth and affability. May I
ask what toothpaste you use?” Robin’s own pearl-white teeth showed
themselves in an equally affable smile.
“Same as you do. Now proceed with your tale. The great moment is rapidly
approaching.” Jerry indicated the clock. “Let us hear about this new
musical wonder before the reception begins all over again.”
“One night last week,” Robin took up her narrative precisely where she
had left off, “Miss French heard someone playing the living room piano.
The Craig Hall girls had gone over to Hamilton Hall in a body to that
illustrated lecture: ‘America South of Us.’ Miss French had stayed in
her room. She had a severe headache.
“When she suddenly heard some one playing Chopin’s Second Nocturne on
the piano in the most divine manner she slipped out of her room and
downstairs to see who it might be. It surprised her even more to find
there was no light in the living room. She was determined to find out
who was in there in the dark, playing so entrancingly, so she sat down
on the hall bench to wait for the unknown pianist to finish playing and
come out.”
“And that odd little black-eyed freshie is a musician!” Muriel
exclaimed. “I knew she had it in her to be something unusual. She is a
dandy dancer. I suppose that is because of her well-developed sense of
rhythm.”
“Yes, your black-eyed freshie is a musician. She’s more than that. She
will be the greatest woman pianist in this country, I believe, before
she is many years older,” Robin asserted with conviction. “She played
that marvelous concert waltz by Wieniawski while Miss French was
listening to her. Then she gave a little thing by Schumann, and
then”—Robin paused—“she came out of the living room into the hall and
Miss French _simply grabbed her_ and shook hands with her and told her
she was a genius.”
“What did she say?” came as a general breathless query.
“Oh, she was awfully confused. Miss French asked her to come to her and
Miss Neff’s room and spend the evening. She went. Miss French made
cocoa, and nobly drank some with Miss Oliver. She said she supposed it
would give her the headache all over again. Her headache had stopped
magically when she heard Miss Oliver playing. She surprised it out of
her system, maybe,” Robin said, laughing. “Anyhow she didn’t have a new
headache, which was a reward of virtue for being nice to Miss Oliver.”
“Has anyone at Craig Hall been mean to her?” Muriel inquired rather
threateningly.
“No; only the house has so many more sophs and juniors than freshies,”
Robin explained. “The juniors there are rather a smug self-satisfied
lot, it seems, and Miss Oliver says she knows the Craig Hall sophs think
her awfully stupid. She’s not used to being among a lot of girls. She
hardly knows how to talk about the things that interest them. She was
educated at home by her father and two older brothers. Her father is a
noted ornithologist. One of her brothers is a geologist and the other is
curator of a New York museum. Her father has given her the very best
musical advantages, but he insists that she shall put college before
even her music.”
“The Olivers must be a decidedly interesting family,” was Kathie’s
opinion.
“Miss Oliver’s mother died when Miss Oliver was a child. Her name is
Candace Oliver. Isn’t that a nice name?” Robin asked animatedly.
There was a murmur of agreement.
“Have you heard her play, Robin?” asked Miss Remson from her throne. The
manager of Wayland Hall was not a bit less interested in the “find” than
were the others.
“Twice, Miss Remson. I can’t find words to describe her playing. You
must hear her. She is so obliging about playing. She loves to please.
She was too timid to touch the piano with a crowd of girls in the house.
She stayed at home purposely the other night for the opportunity to play
a little. I told her about my piano in my room, and advised her to have
one put in hers. She has a single, second story back. She said, ‘no,’
her father would not like her to do so. That shows what an honorable
little person she is,” Robin concluded with approval.
“To change the subject for only a minute, today is not the first time I
have heard ‘smug’ and ‘self-satisfied’ applied to the junior class. Such
conditions don’t help democracy along. I speak of it now because Robin
has mentioned it, too. A crowd of “comfies,” who are either too lazy or
else too well pleased with themselves to care what happens to the other
Hamilton students are as detrimental to democracy as are snobs.” Leila
advanced this opinion with considerable emphasis.
“The juniors were enthusiastic enough about the Beauty contest,”
commented Muriel Harding. “I’m not disputing your opinion, Leila. They
made a lot of fuss over it, I suppose, because it happened to appeal to
them. If you consider the junies smug and self-satisfied, then they must
be. I never knew you to make a mistake, Irish Oracle, in going straight
to the root of a matter.”
“I am not making one this time, Matchless Muriel.” Leila’s blue eyes
flashed Muriel a quick, bright glance. “This year’s junies are so
complacent of their new, high estate. They are pleased as children with
everything that happens so long as it suits their fancy. You may recall
they were much the same in disposition when we did station duty and
welcomed them to Hamilton as freshies.”
“I remember _that_ of them,” declared Lillian Wenderblatt. “We thought
them so amiable and easy-going. Later in the year they grew to have a
kind of class stolidity that was positively exasperating at times.”
“I have watched them this year as junies. They have not changed. They
are not interested in fighting for the right unless it might mean some
gain for the class. They are partial to glory, but not to principle. It
is a new weed patch in our democratic garden which we must root out.”
Leila’s mobile face showed a hint of her mental resolution.
“Oh, what a job,” groaned Jerry. “Do you mean to tell me, Leila—”
“Sh-h-h-h! They’re coming down the hall.” Vera breathed a sibilant
warning. “Ready, everyone with the new yell. Don’t one of you dare make
a flivver of it.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------