MARJORIE MEETS WITH A LOSS
By eight o'clock the following night twenty-eight invitations to
Marjorie Dean's Thanksgiving party were on their way. No one of the
invitations ran the risk of being declined. Marjorie had invited only
those boys and girls of her acquaintance who were quite likely to come
and when the momentous evening arrived they put in twenty-eight joyful
appearances and enjoyed the Deans' hospitality to the full.
But to Constance, who wore her beautiful blue gown and went to the party
under the protection of her father, whose somber eyes gleamed with a
strange new happiness, and old John Roland, whose usually vacant
expression had changed to one of inordinate pride, it was, indeed, a
night to be remembered by the three. Charlie was to remain at home in
the care of a kindly neighbor.
The long living-room had been stripped of everything save the piano, and
the polished hardwood floor was ideal to dance on. Uncle John had
received careful instructions beforehand from both Mr. Stevens and
Constance as to his behavior, and with a sudden flash of reason in his
faded eyes had gravely promised to "be good."
He had kept his word, too, and from his station beside the piano he had
played like one inspired from the moment his violin sang the first magic
strains of the "Blue Danube" until it crooned softly the "Home, Sweet
Home" waltz.
The dancers were wholly appreciative of the orchestra, as their coaxing
applause for more music after every number testified, and before the
evening was over several boys and girls had asked Marjorie if "those
dandy musicians" would play for anyone who wanted them.
"Mother's giving a tea next week, and I'm going to tell her about these
men," the Crane had informed Marjorie.
"Hal and I are going to give a party before long, and we'll have them,
too," Jerry had promised. Lawrence Armitage, who had managed to be found
near Constance the greater part of the evening, insisted on being
introduced to her father, and during supper, which was served at small
tables in the dining-room, he had sat at the same table with the two
players and Constance, and kept up an animated and interested discussion
on music with Mr. Stevens.
But the crowning moment of the evening had been when, after supper, the
guests had gathered in the living-room to do stunts, and Constance had
sung Tosti's "Good-bye" and "Thy Blue Eyes," her exquisite voice coming
as a bewildering surprise to the assembled young people. How they had
crowded around her afterward! How glad Marjorie had been at the success
of her plan, and how Mr. Stevens' eyes had shone to hear his daughter
praised by her classmates!
In less than a week afterward Constance rose from obscurity to
semi-popularity. The story of her singing was noised about through
school until it reached even the ears of the girls who had despised her
for her poverty. Muriel and Susan had looked absolute amazement when a
talkative freshman told the news as she received it from a girl who had
attended the party. Mignon, however, was secretly furious at the, to
her, unbelievable report that "that beggarly Stevens girl could actually
sing." She had never forgiven Constance for refusing to dishonorably
assist her in an algebra test, and after her unsuccessful attempt to
fasten the disappearance of her bracelet upon Constance she had disliked
her with that fierce hatred which the transgressor so often feels for
the one he or she has wronged.
Next to Constance in Mignon's black book came Marjorie, who had caused
her to lose her proud position of center on the team, and in Miss Merton
and Marcia Arnold she had two staunch adherents. Just why Miss Merton
disliked Marjorie was hard to say. Perhaps she took violent exception to
the girl's gay, gracious manner and love of life, the early years of
which she was living so abundantly. At any rate, she never lost an
opportunity to harass or annoy the pretty freshman, and it was only by
keeping up an eternal vigilance that Marjorie managed to escape
constant, nagging reproof.
Last of all, Marcia Arnold had a grievance against Marjorie. She was no
longer manager of the freshman team. A disagreeable ten minutes with
Miss Archer after the freshman team had been disbanded, on that dreadful
day, had been sufficient to deprive her of her office, and arouse her
resentment against Marjorie to a fever pitch.
There were still a number of girls in the freshman class who clung to
Muriel and Mignon, but they were in the minority. At least two-thirds of
19-- had made friendly overtures not only to Marjorie, but to Constance
as well, and as the short December days slipped by, Marjorie began to
experience a contentment and peace in her school that she had not felt
since leaving dear old Franklin High.
"Everything's going beautifully, Captain," she declared gaily to her
mother in answer to the latter's question, as she flashed into the
living-room one sunny winter afternoon, with dancing eyes and pink
cheeks. "It couldn't be better. I like almost every one in school;
Constance's father has more playing than he can do; you bought me that
darling collar and cuff set yesterday; I've a long letter from Mary;
I've studied all my lessons for to-day, and--oh, yes, we're going to
have creamed chicken and lemon meringue pie for dinner. Isn't that
enough to make me happy for one day at least?"
"What a jumble of happiness!" laughed her mother.
"Isn't it, though? And now Christmas is almost here. That's another
perfectly gigantic happiness," was Marjorie's extravagant comment. "I
love Christmas! That reminds me, Mother, you said you would help me play
Santa Claus to little Charlie. I don't believe he has ever spent a
really jolly Christmas. Of course, Mr. Stevens and Constance will give
him things, but he needs a whole lot more presents besides. He climbed
into my lap and told me all about what he wanted when I was over there
yesterday. I promised to speak to Santa Claus about it. Charlie isn't
going to hang up his stocking. He's going to leave a funny little wagon
that he drags around for Santa Claus. He told me very solemnly that he
knew Santa Claus couldn't fill it, for Connie had said that he never had
enough presents to go around, but she was sure he would have a few left
when he reached Charlie.
"So Constance and I are going to decorate the wagon with evergreen and
hang strings of popcorn on it and fill it full of presents after he
goes to bed. He has promised to go very early Christmas eve. Mr. Roland
has a little violin he is going to give him, and Mr. Stevens has a
cunning chair for him. He has never had a chair of his own. Constance
has some picture books and toys, and I'm going to buy some, too. I saved
some money from my allowance this month on purpose for this."
Marjorie's face glowed with generous enthusiasm as she talked.
"I am going shopping day after to-morrow," said Mrs. Dean, "and as long
as it is Saturday, you had better go with me."
"Oh, splendid!" cried Marjorie, dancing up and down on her tiptoes.
"Things are getting interestinger and interestinger."
"Regardless of English," slyly supplemented her mother, as Marjorie
danced out of the room to answer the postman's ring.
"Here are two letters for you, Captain, but not even a postcard for me.
I'd love to have a letter from Mary, but I haven't answered her last one
yet. I'll write to her to-morrow and send her present, too, with special
orders not to open it until Christmas."
The next morning Marjorie hurried off to school early, in hopes of
seeing Constance before the morning session began. Her friend entered
the study hall just as the first bell rang, however, and Marjorie had
only time for a word or two in the corridor as they filed off to their
respective classes.
"I'll see her in French class," thought Marjorie. "I'll ask Professor
Fontaine to let me sit with her." But when she reached the French room
and the class gathered, Constance was not among them, nor did she enter
the room later. Wondering what had happened, Marjorie reluctantly turned
her attention to the advance lesson.
"We weel read this leetle poem togethaire," directed Professor Fontaine,
amiably, "but first I shall read eet to you. Eet is called 'Le
Papillon,' which means the 'botterfly.'"
Unconsciously, Marjorie's hand strayed to the open neck of her blouse.
Then she dropped her hand in dismay. Her butterfly, her pretty talisman,
where was it? She remembered wearing it to school that morning, or
thought she remembered. Oh, yes, she now recalled that she had pinned it
to her coat lapel. It had always shone so bravely against the soft blue
broadcloth. She longed to rush downstairs to her locker before reporting
in the study hall for dismissal, but remembering how sourly Miss Merton
had looked at her only that morning, she decided to possess her soul in
patience until the session was dismissed.
Once out of the study hall she dashed downstairs at full speed and
hastily opened her locker. As she seized her coat she noted vaguely that
Constance's hat and coat were missing, but her mind was centered on
her pin. Then an exclamation of grief and dismay escaped her. The lapel
was bare of ornament. Her butterfly was gone!
"I wonder if I really did leave it at home?" was her distracted thought,
as she climbed the basement stairs with a heavy heart, after having
thoroughly examined the locker. But a close search of her room that noon
revealed no trace of the missing pin. Hot tears gathered in her eyes,
but she brushed them away, muttering: "I won't cry. It isn't lost. It
can't be. Oh, my pretty talisman!" She choked back a sob. "I sha'n't
tell mother unless it is really hopeless. It won't do any good and
she'll feel sorry because I do. It's my own fault. I should have seen
that my butterfly was securely fastened."
On the way home from the school that afternoon Marjorie reported the
loss of her pin to Irma, Jerry and Constance, who had returned for the
afternoon session.
"What a shame!" sympathized Jerry. "It was such a beauty."
"I'm so sorry you lost it," condoled Irma.
"So am I," echoed Constance. "I don't remember it. I'm not very
observing about jewelry, but I'm dreadfully sorry just the same."
"It was----" began Marjorie, but a joyful whistle far up the street and
the faint ring of running feet put a sudden end to her description.
Lawrence Armitage, Hal Macy and the Crane had espied the girls from
afar and come with winged feet to join them. Their evident pleasure in
the girls' society, coupled with the indescribably funny antics of the
Crane, who had apparently appointed himself an amusement committee of
one, drove away Marjorie's distress over her loss for the time being,
and it was not until later that she remembered that she had not
described the butterfly pin to Constance.