MARJORIE'S WONDERFUL DISCOVERY
What transpired in Miss Archer's private office on that memorable
morning when the freshman team visited her in a body was a subject that
agitated high school circles for at least a week afterward. Other than
the team no one could furnish any authentic information as to what had
actually been said and done, but the amazing report that "Miss Archer
had disbanded the freshman basketball team" was on every one's tongue.
Whether or not another team would be selected no one knew. That would
depend wholly upon Miss Archer's decision. That the members of the team
had offended seriously there could be no doubt. As for the ex-members
themselves, they were absolutely mute on the subject. Among themselves,
however, they had a great deal to say, and, one and all, held Marjorie
Dean responsible for their downfall.
When Miss Archer had commanded their presence in her office that
eventful morning it was not in connection with the conflicting
statements of Ellen Seymour and Mignon La Salle. Satisfied that Mignon
was the real offender, she had read that young woman a lesson on
untruthfulness and treachery in the presence of the team that left her
white with mortification, her stormy black eyes alone betraying her
rage.
Then Miss Archer proceeded to the other business at hand, which was an
inquiry into their reason for requesting Marjorie Dean's resignation
from the team. One by one, the four girls, with the exception of Helen
Thornton, were questioned separately and acknowledged, in shamefaced
fashion, that Marjorie was a really good player.
"Then why," Miss Archer had asked sharply, "did you ask her to resign?"
There had been no answer to this pertinent question, and then had
followed their principal's rebuke, sharp and stinging.
"It is not often that I feel impelled to interfere in your games," she
had said. "Not long since I refused to listen to something Miss Arnold
tried to tell me; but, when several heartless girls deliberately combine
to humiliate and discomfit a companion under the flimsy pretext of 'the
good of the team' it is time to call a halt. Four girls were prime
movers in this contemptible plan. One girl was an accessory, and
therefore equally guilty. In justice to the traditions of Sanford High
School the girl who has suffered at your hands, and in defense of my own
self-respect, these offenders must be punished. So I am going to
disband your team and forbid any one of you to play basketball again
until I am satisfied that you know something of the first principles of
honor and fair play. However, I shall not forbid basketball to the
freshmen. The innocent shall not suffer with the guilty. A new team will
be chosen which I trust will be a credit rather than a detriment to our
high school. You are dismissed."
Five girls, whose faces were an open indication of their chagrin, had
left the principal's office in a far more chastened frame of mind than
when they had entered it. Miss Archer's arraignment had been a most
unpleasant surprise, and in discussing it among themselves afterward,
Helen Thornton had caused Mignon to pour forth a torrent of biting words
by saying sulkily, that if Mignon had let Ellen Seymour alone everything
would have been all right.
"Do you mean to say that you believe those miserable girls?" Mignon had
cried out.
And Helen had answered with marked sarcasm, "No; I believe what I saw
with my own eyes, and I wish I'd never heard of your old team. I'm
ashamed to think I ever listened to you," and had walked away from the
group with a sore and penitent heart, never to return to their circle
again.
All this was, of course, kept strictly secret by the other four
ex-members, who joined hands and vowed solemnly that they would weather
the gale together. The disbanding of the team by Miss Archer and Ellen
Seymour's vindication, could not be hushed up, however, and, despite
their protests that Miss Archer was unfair, and that the statements of
certain other girls were wholly unreliable, they lost ground with their
classmates.
Marjorie, too, had been made to feel the weight of their displeasure,
for they took pains to circulate the report that it was she who had told
tales to the principal, and thus brought them to grief. Several of the
sophomores, including Ellen Seymour, heatedly denied the rumor, and a
number of freshmen also took up the cudgels in her behalf. Jerry, Irma
and Constance stood firmly by her, and, although the poor little
lieutenant was far more hurt over the allegation than she would show,
she kept a brave face to the front and tried to ignore the ill-natured
thrusts launched chiefly by Muriel and Mignon.
But in the midst of this uncomfortable season Marjorie made a wonderful
discovery. It was quite by chance that she made it, and it concerned
Constance Stevens. Although the Mary girl had apparently grown very fond
of Marjorie and had almost entirely dropped her strange cloak of
reserve, she had never invited the girl who had so graciously befriended
her to her home.
From the words of vehement protest which Constance had spoken on that
day when Marjorie had followed her and protested that they become
friends, she had partly understood the other girl's position in regard
to her family, and had tactfully avoided the subject ever afterward. She
had talked the matter over with her captain, and they had decided to
respect Constance's reticence and keep religiously away from anything
bordering on the discussion of her family.
It was on a crisp November afternoon, several days before Thanksgiving,
that Marjorie made her discovery. As she walked into the living-room,
her books on her arm, her cheeks pink from the sharp, frosty air, her
mother hung up the telephone with: "Marjorie, do you think Constance
would like to go with us to the theatre to-night? Your father has just
telephoned me that he has four tickets."
"She'd love it. I know she would. I'll hurry straight down to her house
and ask her." Marjorie dropped her books on the table with a joyful
thump.
"Very well; but I wish you would wait until I finish my letter, then you
can post it on your way there."
"Did Nora bake chocolate cake to-day?" asked Marjorie irrelevantly.
"Yes."
There was a rush of light feet from the room. Three minutes later
Marjorie returned, a huge piece of chocolate layer cake in her hand.
"It's the best ever," she declared between bites.
By the time the cake was eaten the letter was ready.
"Hurry, dear," her mother called after her; "we shall have an early
dinner."
It did not recur to Marjorie until within sight of the house where
Constance lived that she was an uninvited guest. What a queer-looking
little house it was! Long ago it had been painted a pale gray with white
trimmings, but now it was a dingy, hopeless color that defied
description. A child's dilapidated tricycle stood on the rickety porch,
which was approached by a flight of three unstable-looking steps.
Her mind centered upon her errand, Marjorie paid small attention to her
surroundings. She bounded up the steps, searching with alert eyes for a
bell. Finding none she doubled her fist to knock, but paused suddenly
with upraised arm. From within the house came the vibrant notes of a
violin mingled with the soft accompaniment of a piano.
"Schubert's 'Serenade,'" breathed Marjorie, delightedly, lowering her
arm. "I simply must listen."
Suddenly a voice took up the plaintive strain. It was so high and sweet
and clear that the listener caught her breath in sheer amazement.
She stood spellbound, while the wonderful voice sang on and on to the
last note of the exquisite "Serenade" that seemed to end in a long-drawn
sigh.
Marjorie knocked lightly, but no one responded.
The singer had begun again. This time it was Nevin's "Oh That We Two
Were Maying."
She listened again; then, to her surprise, the door was gently opened.
Before her stood the tiny figure of a boy whose great black eyes looked
curiously into hers. Laying his finger upon his lips, he gravely
motioned with his other hand for her to enter. Then as he limped away
from the door Marjorie saw he was a cripple.
Marjorie stepped noiselessly into the room, her eyes on the piano. A man
was seated before it. She could not see his face, but she noted that he
had an enormous shock of snow-white hair. At one side of him stood
another old man, his thin cheek resting lovingly against his violin, his
whole soul intent upon the flood of melody he was bringing forth, while
on the other side of the pianist, her quiet face fairly transfigured
stood Constance, pouring out her very heart in song.