Yours truly,
Marion.”
“It will be the best thing in the world for Marion,” replied the voice
of Marion’s mother.
“There is no best thing in the world for Marion,” Marion told herself
wearily, rising from the back parlor sofa, where she had thrown
herself to be alone, and stepping softly across the room to the door.
To be alone in the dark was the best thing in the world for her; to be
alone in the dark forever. For something had happened to her that had
never happened to any girl before. With a light tread she went up
stairs: she would not have her mother know that she had overheard the
remark made to her father—her mother could not know all, only herself
and Don Mackenzie knew her cruel secret; he would never tell, not even
Roger, and she could sooner die than let the words pass her lips to
any human creature. Girls had gone through terrible things before; but
no girl ever had gone through this; no girl could, unless she were
like herself, and no girl was like herself, so impetuous, so headlong,
so frank that frankness became a sin.
In her own chamber she found the darkness and solitude she craved; the
darkness and solitude she thought she would crave forever. The voices
in the front parlor went on low and steadily, planning a best thing
for Marion for whom no best was possible.
“Yes, it will certainly be a good thing,” her father answered in a
relieved tone; “she hasn’t been herself since Donald Mackenzie went
away.”
“I was afraid when he came,” was the low uttered response.
“Mothers are always afraid,” returned the father, who had urged his
coming.
“But I was specially afraid; Don is so attractive, so unconscious of
himself, and I know Marion well enough to know that she would make an
ideal of him—”
“Nonsense,” was the sharp interruption.
“It may be nonsense, but it is true; it has proved true. Marion is
imaginative, as I was at her age: I know how I idealized _you_—”
“And the reality of me broke your heart,” he said, with a light, fond
laugh.
“Yes. Sometimes it did. But I lived through it and learned that you
were human, and deliciously human, and, if you will allow me to say
so, a great improvement on my girlish ideal.”
“At any rate, I was not afraid to let you try,” he answered; “but Don
has gone without giving her the trial. I suspect he saw it and went.”
“I know he did,” said Marion’s mother.
“Does Roger know it?” asked Marion’s father.
“Roger always knows everything and looks as if he knew nothing,”
replied the motherly voice; “I think he was relieved when Don went
away.”
“You think she will soon get over it?” her father asked. It would have
broken Marion’s heart to hear the solicitude in her father’s voice.
“I’m afraid there’s no ‘over it’ for a girl like her; but she is
plucky enough to get through it; the worst of it is, Don is such a
fine fellow.”
“He had no right to care for her—” her father began angrily.
“He couldn’t help that,” argued her mother.
“Then he should care more, and be a man, and speak his mind—”
“I think he _must_ care for some one else; if he hadn’t he couldn’t
resist Marion.”
“Marion is like other girls,” said Marion’s father impatiently; “not a
whit prettier—”
“No, not prettier,” she assented, with protest in her tone.
“Or more accomplished,” he insisted.
“She hasn’t accomplishments, beside her fine education, and music—”
“All girls play, I suppose he sees other girls—”
“And she saw but one man. That was the trouble. I wonder how fathers
and mothers can help that. Roger wanted him to come to board through
the winter, said a boarding-house was dismal, and his mother had just
died—well, we can’t help it now. Don has cared for all the children—he
was great friends with Maurice and John. If she will go to Bensalem
and keep house for Roger, it will be just the thing.”
“I think so myself,” he answered, reasonably.
“Roger will be only too happy; his sister Marion has always been his
sweetheart.”
“Bensalem will do,” replied her father, hopefully, shifting all his
responsibility; “when we visit them next summer she will be as rosy as
ever and singing about the house like a bird.”
“Then Roger must accept that call,” decided Roger’s mother positively.
“A year in the country will brush off his student ways—it will be the
best thing in the world for both of them.”
“And poor Bensalem?”
“It isn’t poor Bensalem,” she retorted, indignantly. “They knew what
they wanted when they called Roger.”
“Roger is a good boy, but he isn’t the least bit brilliant,” said
Roger’s father, cheerfully.
“He is something better,” said Roger’s mother.
“But how can you get along without her?”
“Better than Roger can. Besides, Martha and Lou will soon be through
school; Roger and Marion are not our only children.”
“You talk as though they were, sometimes,” he retorted. “Anyhow, let
the sky fall, but do something for Marion.”