THE PLEDGE
"Oh, I am so glad we are to have a locker together!" exclaimed Marjorie,
impulsively. "I've been very anxious to know you. I really owe you an
apology. I spoke to you in the street the other day. I don't know what
you thought of me, but you look so much like my dearest chum in
B---- that I called to you before I realized what I was doing."
The other girl regarded Marjorie with the suspicious, uneasy eyes of a
cornered animal. Then, without answering, she reached for her hat and
was about to go silently on her way, when something in Marjorie's
gracious words seemed to touch her and she said, grudgingly, "I remember
you."
"That's nice," beamed Marjorie. "I was afraid you wouldn't. Let me tell
you about my chum." She launched forth in an enthusiastic description of
Mary Raymond and of their long friendship. "I wrote Mary about having
seen a girl that looked like her. She will be very curious to see you.
She's coming to visit me some time during the year. So I hope you and I
will be friends. But I haven't even told you who I am. My name is
Marjorie Dean. Won't you please tell me yours?" She offered her hand
winningly, but the strange, self-contained young girl ignored it.
"My name is Constance Stevens." Her voice was coldly reluctant, carrying
with it an unmistakable rebuff.
Marjorie drew back, puzzled and hurt. She was not used to having her
friendly overtures rejected. The blue-eyed girl saw the shrinking
movement, and, stirred by some hitherto unknown impulse, stretched forth
her hand. "Please forgive me for being so rude," she said contritely.
"It is awfully sweet in you to tell me about your chum and to say that
you wish to be my friend. You are the first girl, who has been so nice
with me since I came to Sanford. How I hate them!" Her expressive face
darkened and her blue eyes became filled with brooding, sullen anger.
"Are you going home to luncheon now?" asked Marjorie, with a view toward
keeping away from disagreeable subjects.
The other girl nodded, then, pinning on her hat, the two left the
building. Marjorie wished to ask questions, but she did not know how to
begin with this strange, moody girl. There were so many things to say.
"Do you play basketball?" she asked, almost timidly, when they had
traversed three blocks in silence.
Constance shook her head. "I don't even know the game, let alone trying
to play it. Do you play?"
"Yes. I have played every position on the team. I was chosen for center
of the freshman team at Franklin High just before I came here. One of
the freshmen has asked me to go to the tryout on Friday."
The Mary girl looked wistfully at Marjorie. "I'm going to tell you
something," she announced with finality. "Truly, it's for your own good.
You mustn't try to be friends with me. If you do, you'll be sorry. We,
my father and I, are nobodies in this town. Father's a broken-down
musician who teaches the violin for a living. I've a little lame
brother, and we take care of a poor old musician, who, people say, is
crazy. He isn't, though. He's merely childish.
"People call us Bohemians and gypsies and even vagabonds. They don't
understand that our greatest crime is just being poor. The girls in the
freshman class make fun of me and call me a tramp and a beggar behind my
back. One girl did try to be the least bit pleasant with me, but she
soon stopped. We've been in Sanford only two months, but it seems like a
hundred years. At first I was glad to think I was going to high school.
How I hate it now! But they sha'n't drive me away. I'll get my
education in spite of everything." Her lips drew together with resolute
purpose.
"So, you see," her voice grew gentle, "you mustn't waste your time upon
me. The girls won't like you if you do, and you don't know how dreadful
it is to be left out of everything. Of course, you can speak to me,
but----" She paused and looked eloquent meaning at Marjorie. Her late
aloofness had quite vanished. Her small face was now soft and friendly,
making the resemblance to happy-go-lucky Mary Raymond more apparent.
Marjorie laughed. Those who knew her best would have understood that her
laughter meant defiance. "I don't choose my friends because they are
rich or because others like them. I choose them because I want them
myself," she declared with a proud lift of her head. "I knew that
someone had been horrid to you the first day I ever saw you. I heard
several girls talking of you afterward. At least, I think they were
talking of you. I said to myself then that they had misjudged you. So I
went home and wrote my letter to Mary. I told mother all about you, too,
and that I was going to be your friend, if you would let me. I want you
to come and see me and meet mother and father. As for the girls in the
freshman class, I'd like to be friends with them, too, but I couldn't do
anything so contemptible and unfair as to dislike a girl just because
they thought they did. Now, you know what I think about it. Are we
going to share our locker and our troubles and our pleasures?"
The tears flashed across Constance Stevens' eyes. Her hand slid into
Marjorie's, and thus began a friendship between the two freshmen that
was to defy time and change.
They separated on the next corner and, throwing dignity to the winds,
Marjorie raced up the long walk and into the house to see if her captain
was better.
"I came to report, Captain," she said gently as she tiptoed up to her
mother's bed. "How are you, dear?"
"Better, Lieutenant," returned her mother, kissing the pretty, flushed
face. "Now for the report."
"You are sure I won't make your head ache with my chatter?"
"No, dear; it is ever so much better now."
Marjorie went faithfully through with the events of the morning. "I had
to stand by my colors, Captain. I wouldn't be fit to be a soldier if I
didn't know how to stand fast. Just as though it makes any difference
whether a girl is rich or poor if she's a dear and one likes her. How
can some girls be so silly? They wouldn't be if they had Mary's and my
military training. When in doubt ask your captain."
She laughed gaily, then her merry glance changed to one of dismay. "Good
gracious! It's fifteen minutes to one. I'll have to eat my luncheon in
a hurry." With a hasty kiss Marjorie flitted from the room and down the
stairs to the dining-room.
After luncheon she lingered for a brief moment with her mother, then set
off for the afternoon session of school. But she could not help
wondering as she walked just how it would seem to be in the freshman
class but not of it.