THE CROWNING INJURY
Marjorie never remembered just how she reached home that afternoon. She
followed the familial streets mechanically, her brain tortured with but
one burning thought--Constance was a thief. Over and over the dreadful
sentence repeated itself in her mind. "How could she?" was her
half-sobbed whisper, as she slipped quietly into the house, and, without
glancing toward the living-room, went softly upstairs to her room. She
wanted to be alone. Not even her beloved captain could ease the hurt
dealt her by the girl she had loved and trusted. Her mother must never
know that Constance was unworthy. No one should know, but she could
never, never be friends with Constance again.
With the tears running down her cheeks Marjorie took off the new fur
coat she had worn so proudly that afternoon and dropped it upon the
first convenient chair. Her hat followed it; then throwing herself
across the bed, she gave way to uncontrolled weeping. Until that moment
she had not realized how greatly she had loved this girl who had Mary's
eyes of true blue, but who was so sadly lacking in Mary's fine sense of
honor.
Until the afternoon light waned and the shadows began to creep upon her
she lay mourning, and inconsolable. Her generous heart had been sorely
wounded and she could not easily thrust aside her dreadful sense of
loss; neither could she understand why Constance had partly acknowledged
that she took the butterfly pin, but had not offered to return it.
"I couldn't ask her for it," she sighed to herself, as, at last, she
rose, switched on the electric light, and viewed her tear-swollen face
in the mirror, "not when she had kept it all this time. She knew how
dreadfully I felt over losing it, and she certainly saw the notice in
the hall." A flash of resentment tinged her grief.
"I can't forgive her. I'll never forgive her. I----" Marjorie's lips
began to quiver ominously. "I won't cry any more," she asserted stoutly.
"My face is a sight now. Mother will ask me what the trouble is, and I
don't want a soul to know. Of course, we can't go to the matinee
to-morrow. We can't ever go anywhere together again." Once more the
tears threatened to fall. She shut her eyes and forced them back, then
went dejectedly down the hall to the bathroom to lave her flushed face
and aching eyes.
By the time dinner was ready Marjorie showed no traces of her grief.
She was unusually quiet at dinner, however, and her mother inquired
anxiously if she were ill.
"Did you wear your new coat this afternoon?" her father asked soberly.
"Yes, General. I went to see Constance." Marjorie tried to speak
naturally.
"Ah, that accounts for it," he declared, putting on a professional air.
"Too much magnificence has struck in. You have, no doubt, a
well-developed case of pride and vanity."
"I haven't a single shred of either," protested Marjorie, laughing a
little at her father's tone, which was an exact imitation of their
former family physician. "That sounded just like good old Doctor Bates."
"Are you and Constance going to take Charlie to the matinee to-morrow,
dear?" asked her mother.
"No, Mother," returned Marjorie. Then as though determined to evade
further questioning, she asked: "May I go shopping with you?"
"I wish you would. You can select the material for your new dress and
the lace for that blouse I am making for you. It is so pretty. My new
fashion book came to-day. I have picked out several styles of gowns for
you."
"What did you pick out for me?" inquired Mr. Dean, ingenuously.
"You can't have any new clothes. Too much magnificence would strike in.
You would have, no doubt, a well-developed case of pride and vanity,"
retorted Marjorie, wickedly.
"Report at the guard house at once, for disrespectful conduct to your
superior officer," ordered Mr. Dean with great severity.
"Not to-night, thank you," bowed the disobedient lieutenant, as all
three rose from the table, "I'm going upstairs to my room to write a
letter."
Once in her room Marjorie went to her desk and opened it with a
reluctance born of the knowledge of a painful task to be performed.
Seating herself, she reached for her pen and nibbled the end soberly as
she racked her brain for the best way to begin a note to Constance.
Finally she decided and wrote:
"Dear Constance:
"I cannot come over to your house to-morrow or ever again. I know what
you wanted to tell me. It is too dreadful to think of. You should have
told me before. I will never let anyone know, so you need not worry. You
have hurt me terribly, and I can't forgive you yet, but I hope I shall
some day. I don't like to mention things, but for your own sake won't
you try to do what is right about the pin? I shall always speak to you
in school, for I don't wish the girls to know we have separated.
"Yours sorrowfully,
"MARJORIE."
When she had finished, the all-too-ready tears had again flooded her
eyes and dropped unrestrained upon the green blotting pad on her desk.
After a little she slowly wiped her eyes, and, without reading what she
had written, folded the letter, addressed and stamped it. Slipping into
her coat, she wound a silken scarf about her head and went downstairs.
"I'm going out to the mailbox, Mother," she called, as she passed the
living-room door.
"Very well," returned Mrs. Dean, abstractedly. She was deep in her book
and did not glance up, for which Marjorie was thankful. If her mother
noticed her reddened eyelids, explanations would necessarily follow.
The next day dragged interminably. Even the usual pleasure of going
shopping with her captain could not mitigate the pain of yesterday's
shocking discovery. To Marjorie the bare idea of theft was abhorrent.
When, at the Hallowe'en dance, Mignon had accused Constance of taking
her bracelet, Marjorie's wrath at the insult to her friend had been
righteous and sweeping.
That night, as she sat opposite her mother in the living-room trying to
read one of the books she had received for Christmas the incident of the
missing bracelet and Mignon's accusation suddenly loomed up in her mind
like an unwelcome specter. Suppose Mignon had been right, after all.
Jerry had openly asserted that she did not believe Mignon had really
lost her bracelet, and in her anger Marjorie had secretly agreed with
the stout girl. Suppose Constance had taken it. What if she were one of
those persons one reads of in books whom continued poverty had made
dishonest, or perhaps she was a kleptomaniac? The last idea, though
unpleasant to contemplate, was not so repugnant to her as the first; but
she did not believe it to be true. Constance's partial confession,
coupled with her ready tears, was positive proof that she had been
conscious of her act of theft. There was only one other theory left; she
had found the pin and succumbed to the temptation of keeping it. Yet
Constance had always averred that she did not care for jewelry, and
would not wear it if she possessed it.
Marjorie went over these suppositions again and again, but each time her
theories ended with the bitter fact that, in spite of her tears,
Constance had kept her ill-gotten bauble.
The vacation which had promised so much, and which she had happily
supposed would be all too short, seemed endless. During the long days
that followed she received no word from the girl in the little gray
house. If Constance had received her letter, she made no sign, and this
served to add to Marjorie's belief in her unworthiness.
Jerry Macy's New Year's party proved a welcome relief from the hateful
experience through which she had passed. Although invited, Constance
was not among the merry gathering of young people, and Jerry loudly
lamented the fact. Mr. Stevens and Uncle John Roland, who furnished the
music for the dancing, greeted Marjorie with affectionate regard. It was
evident that they knew nothing of what had transpired. Constance was
ill, her father reported, but hoped to be able to return to school on
Tuesday. He thanked Marjorie for her remembrance of him and Charlie, and
Uncle John forgot himself and repeated everything after him with
grateful nods and smiles.
During the evening Marjorie frequently found herself near the two
musicians, and Lawrence Armitage, secretly disappointed because of
Constance's absence, also did considerable loitering in their immediate
vicinity. If the troubled little lieutenant had had nothing on her mind,
she would have spent a most delightful evening, for the Macy's enormous
living-room had been transformed into a veritable ballroom, where the
guests might dance without bumping elbows at every turn, while Hal and
Jerry were the most hospitable entertainers.
If Constance's father and foster uncle had not been present, she might
have forgotten her woes, but whenever she glanced at either, the
sorrowful face of the Mary girl rose before her. To make matters worse,
Jerry proposed to her that they call upon Constance the next day, and
Marjorie was obliged to refuse lamely without giving any apparent
reason. It was in the nature of a relief to her when the party broke up.
In spite of the gratifying knowledge that the girls had pronounced her
new white silk frock the prettiest gown of all, and that Hal Macy had
been her devoted cavalier, Marjorie Dean went to bed that night in a
most unhappy mood.
The Monday before she returned to school she began a long letter to
Mary. She and Mary had sworn that, though miles divided them, they would
tell each other their secrets. Resolved to keep her word, she had
written her heart out to her chum, then had read the letter and torn it
into little pieces. Having written only pleasant things of her new
friend to Mary, she could not bear to take away her good name with a few
strokes of her pen.
"If only Constance were true and honorable like Mary," she sighed as she
closed her desk, and selecting a book she wandered disconsolately
downstairs to the living-room to read; but her thoughts continually
reverted to her own grievance. "If she gives back my pin, I'll forgive
her," was her final conclusion as at last she laid her book aside with
an impatient sigh, and sitting down on a little stool near the fire,
stared gloomily into its ruddy depths; "but I never, never, never can
feel the same toward her again."
Marjorie went to school on Tuesday morning vaguely hoping that
Constance would see things in a finer light and act accordingly.
Unselfish in most respects, the poor little soldier had forgotten
everything save the fact that she was the injured one. To her it seemed
as though the other girl's crushing weight of half-acknowledged guilt
ought to make her a willing suppliant for pardon. During the early part
of the morning session she waited, half expecting to receive a contrite
plea for grace from the Mary girl.
When her French hour came, she hurried into the classroom, thinking that
she might see Constance before the class gathered; but Professor
Fontaine had closed the door and remarked genially, "_Bon jour,
mesdemoiselles. Comment vous portez vous, aujourd'hui_. I trost that you
have not forgotten your French during your 'oliday," when it opened
quietly to admit Constance.
Marjorie regarded her gravely, noting that she looked pale and tired.
Suddenly her eyes opened in wide, unbelieving amazement. With a
half-smothered exclamation that caused half the class to turn and look
at her, including Mignon, whose alert eyes traveled knowingly between
the two girls, she tore her gaze from the disturbing sight, and, putting
one hand over her eyes, leaned her head on her arm. For fastened at the
open neck of Constance's blouse was her butterfly pin.