DEFEATING HER OWN HAPPINESS
When the door had closed on her gossiping caller Doris sat down again at
the table. She leaned her beautiful head on her white, dimpled arms and
gave herself up to brief disconsolate reverie. Now that she was alone
she wondered whether what Julia Peyton had said about Muriel Harding was
strictly true. There was one way in which she could find out with
certainty. She would ask Muriel point-blank if it were true that four
off-campus girls had refused her invitation. She would ask Muriel, also,
where she had gained so much information regarding herself. When she
endeavored to recall Julia’s exact words she found they did not mean
much. Julia’s reluctant inflections, her stammering pauses, had implied
so much more than words.
Julia’s object in warning Doris against Muriel had been double. Since
the evening when she had made complaint against the noise in Room 15 she
had shown marked hostility to the knot of post graduates at Wayland
Hall. She and Clara Carter had encouraged Doris in her half fancied
dislike for them. She had noted the new spirit of friendliness growing
between Doris and Muriel with every intention of crushing it if she
could. She kept up a zealous watching and longing for an opportunity to
create dissention between them. She had a habit of dropping in on Doris
in her room when Muriel was there purposely to see how things were
between the two. She never spoke to Muriel, however.
About the time she had begun to despair of making mischief between them
she was delighted to overhear a group of chattering freshmen in the
gymnasium one afternoon gaily discussing their Christmas plans. What
most pleased her were the remarks of one of them: “Isn’t it too bad?
Miss Harding can’t find a single dorm to trot home with her. They are
all attached. It’s too bad for her. I mean. Of course it’s lovely for
the dorms.”
The jealous, prejudiced girl had chosen to place an entirely different
construction upon the remarks from that intended by the merry little
freshman. By the time she had repeated the remarks to Clara Carter, her
roommate, with embellishments, they had assumed an ugly tone. Clara also
contributed a few opinions which did not improve matters.
Added to this it needed but the rumor that Doris Monroe was going home
with Miss Harding for the holidays to set the mischief-making pair of
sophomores to work. Julia was of the opinion that since Doris had
planned to go home with Muriel she and Miss Cairns must have quarreled.
If she could only set Doris against her roommate then Doris would go
home for the vacation with her. She would have the pleasure of boasting
that she had entertained the college beauty. She was confident that she
would gain socially by having entertained Doris as her guest. With so
much to be gained to her interest Julia had picked her hour and boldly
braved the “Busy” sign and Doris’s “royal” manner. At the last she had
not dared propose to Doris that her wrathful classmate should spend the
vacation with her. She returned to her room to inform Clara, who was
watching for her, that she had just missed getting into an awful mess.
With a pettish little jerk of her head Doris straightened in her chair.
She picked up the letter she had been writing from the table and began
reading it over. Then she sat staring reflectively at it, as though
deliberating some very special course. Next instant and she had torn the
unfinished letter in pieces. With the peculiar cresting of her golden
head, always a sign of defiance, she reached for her fountain pen where
it had rolled to one end of the table.
“Dear Leslie:” she wrote, her green eyes darkening with her
unquiet thoughts. “If you really meant what you said when I left
you the other day at the Colonial, then I will take you at your
word. Miss Harding, my roommate, has invited me to go home with
her. I prefer to go to New York with you, provided you will not
feel that I am an incumbrance to your plans. Let me know
immediately what you wish to do.
“Sincerely,
“DORIS MONROE.”
She read the brief note, folded it and prepared it for mailing. Then she
tucked the envelope in her portfolio, but without a stamp. She glanced
up at the clock. It was nearing six. Muriel would soon arrive. Of late
she and Muriel had exchanged the cheerful, careless greetings of
girlhood when they met in their room or on the campus. She had lately
begun to find a roommate might be a congenial comfort instead of a
tiresome inconvenience. Now it was all spoiled. Muriel had pretended
pity for her to other students. Of all things detested, Doris most
disliked being pitied.
In spite of her anger against Muriel, Doris could do no less than admit
to herself that Julia Peyton’s word was not to be taken above Muriel’s.
Yet she was sullenly convinced that Muriel must have said something
pitying about her to someone. How else could Julia have heard it? A
bright flush dyed her face as she thought of herself as being a
last-resort guest. Perhaps Muriel had been asked by Miss Dean to invite
her, merely as a welfare experiment. She had heard that Miss Dean was
fond of making such experiments. It was outrageous that _she_ should
have been selected as the victim of one. Other far-fetched, flashing
conjectures visited her troubled brain as she waited for Muriel’s
coming. She could not decide whether to treat Muriel with friendliness,
asking her frankly for an explanation, or to resort once again to her
old-time haughty indifference.
Muriel’s sudden breezy entrance and accompanying cry: “Where, oh, where,
are the lickerish lights?” took Doris’s mind off herself for a moment.
Muriel had already pressed the switch near the door. She made such an
attractive study in her gray squirrel coat and cap, cheeks carnation
pink, dark eyes snapping with sheer love of life Doris had no desire to
be haughty.
“I forgot the lights,” she said with a little shrug. She continued to
watch Muriel who was removing coat and cap. “I should like to ask you
something,” she said as Muriel hung up her wraps and commenced smoothing
her ruffled hair before a mirror.
“Ask ahead.” Muriel waved affable permission with her hair brush.
“Is there—are there—am I the only guest you have invited for Christmas?”
Unconsciously Doris’s voice had taken on a shade of its former icy
quality.
“You’re the only one who’s coming,” laughed Muriel. “You’re by no means
the only one I invited.”
“Oh!” Doris gave a queer little gasp.
“Did you hear about my dormitory girls? I invited them, and they
accepted. Then they had unexpected checks sent them from home and away
they went. I wandered around looking for some checkless, invitationless
dorms. There were no such stoojents.” Muriel declared good-humoredly. “I
supposed of course you were dated ahead for the holidays. Then I asked
you, and found you weren’t. I was so glad. I’d have felt sorry to think
of you poking around the campus over Christmas alone. You’re so far from
home, you see. Marjorie said the same and—”
“I don’t wish anyone to be sorry for me.” Doris’s almost fierce
utterance checked Muriel’s flow of cheery volubility.
“All right. I’m not sorry a bit. You only dreamed I was,” she retorted
in a tone of gay raillery.
“I’m not jesting. I am serious.” Doris drew herself up, a slim figure of
affronted dignity. All that Julia had said of Muriel was true. Only one
question, and Muriel had then practically admitted saying almost the
exact words Julia had quoted as hers.
“Oh-h-h?” Muriel voiced the monosyllable questioningly. Her bright
expression faded into concern. “Serious about what?” she asked.
“About not wishing you or Miss Dean or any of your friends to be sorry
for me. I have plenty of friends—delightful friends. Why, I’ve refused
half a dozen Christmas invitations! I have changed my mind about going
home with you. I’m not going. I shall go to New York instead. I might
have liked you, if you hadn’t tried to pity me behind my back. That was
worse than to my face. Please tell Miss Dean to mind her own affairs. I
am not a welfare experiment.”
Doris delivered the long answer to Muriel’s question in a voice that
grew more scornful with each word. She busied herself as she sputtered
forth her displeasure with the donning of hat and coat. With
“experiment” she snatched the letter she had written to Leslie Cairns
from the portfolio, hastily affixed a stamp to the envelope and rushed
from the room. Muriel watched her go, divided between vexation and
perplexity. What under the sun had happened to the Ice Queen?
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