Presently clearance came. With a long sigh, Marjorie raised her head.
She was just in time to see her mother wiping her own eyes and making a
valiant effort to smile. It pulled the little lieutenant together as
nothing else could have done.
"Oh, Captain, forgive me!" she cried out in contrition. It was unusual
to see tears in her mother's soft eyes. "I'm a nice kind of soldier!"
"No harm done," was the tender response. "This little tear shower was
bound to fall, sooner or later. I am all right now." Her mother's
wavering smile steadied itself.
"I've tried to keep away from the sad side of going away to college,"
Marjorie said somberly, "but how many girls are there who have the dear
beautiful home life that I have? And this summer alone with you! It's
been great happiness and sadness all jumbled together. Every once in
awhile when I am very happy, I suddenly remember that there's a shadow.
I have to stop for a minute to think what it is. Then I know--I am going
away from my captain before long."
"You must also stop to remember that you can't go through life only half
educated," practically reminded Mrs. Dean, with a view toward lightening
the lieutenant's pessimistic views. "At least, General and I do not
propose that you shall. Suppose you wished more than all else to go
through college and we could not afford to send you? That would really
be a case for lamentation."
"I've thought of all that," Marjorie returned soberly. "I know it is
splendid that I have the opportunity. I am thankful for all my benefits,
truly I am. I ought to be glad I haven't Lucy Warner's problem to
solve."
"I don't believe either General or I could truly accuse you of being
ungrateful." Mrs. Dean smiled down upon the flushed face so near her
own. "Do you think Lucy Warner will try to enter Hamilton College this
fall?" She asked this question with a double object in view. First, to
take Marjorie's mind off herself. While on the subject of college, she
wished also to draw from Marjorie, if possible, Lucy's present attitude
toward the world in general. When, occasionally, Marjorie had
entertained Lucy at the house that summer at luncheon or dinner, Mrs.
Dean had accorded her the same friendly courtesy she would have extended
to Jerry or Muriel. She had never quite forgiven Lucy for the
unhappiness she had caused Marjorie during both her junior and senior
years at high school. She had not yet come to a point where she could
repose faith in the odd, green-eyed girl of whom Marjorie had grown so
fond.
"She would like to, but she is worried about the expenses. They are so
high at Hamilton." Marjorie's face clouded momentarily. "She could draw
whatever sum of money she needs from the Lookouts' treasury, but she
won't. I may tell you, Captain, but no one else--Lucy feels dreadfully
yet, over that misunderstanding we had last year. She blames herself for
not having believed in me. She says the other girls would not have
doubted me, and she had no right to be so hard on me. She thinks she
isn't worthy of help from the club. She told me this, privately, because
she felt it was my right to know."
Mrs. Dean's long-harbored sense of injury against Lucy Warner took
sudden flight. She understood at last the peculiar girl's innate honesty
of character, and could not do else than respect her for her drastic
stand.
"Lucy feels afraid she may not find any kind of work at Hamilton to help
her out with her personal expenses," Marjorie continued. "She can tutor
in either Latin or mathematics. She has saved nearly two hundred dollars
from her work last year and this summer. If she should enter Hamilton
this fall her mother will do practical nursing. Then she will be earning
quite a good deal of money and she won't be so lonely. That's the way
things are with Lucy. I wish she would enter college with the rest of
us. It would be easier for her and nice for us to be freshmen together."
"Would Lucy accept financial help from you? You may offer it to her if
you think best, Lieutenant." Mrs. Dean's generous proposal arose from a
relieved mind. She could make it with absolute freedom of spirit.
"No, Captain. I am the last one Lucy would allow to help her. If Ronny
were here she might be able to make Lucy see things in the right light.
Ronny is the only one, I feel sure, who could convince her. She would
not give up until she had. But goodness knows when we shall see Ronny
again!"
An anxious little pucker appeared between Marjorie's brows. Not since
the first of July had she heard word from Veronica Lynne, Miss Archer's
God-child. Ronny had left Sanford a few days after Commencement, and had
written her a lengthy train letter, en route for California. This
Marjorie had answered, using a San Francisco address Ronny had given
her. For one reason or another, Ronny had not replied to it.
"I wish Ronny would write me," she said. "She promised me she'd write
_me_ if she didn't write anyone else. I know she will keep her word; but
when?"
During their confidential talk, Marjorie had remained seated on her
mother's lap. Tardy recollection that she was altogether too heavy for
comfort brought her to her feet.
"Poor, dear Captain!" she exclaimed. "You can't help but be tired from
holding a great, heavy elephant like me! We had so much to talk about. I
forgot everything except how nice it was to snuggle close to you and be
comforted. That's the very hardest part of being away from you. I won't
have my superior officers near by to report to."
"You will have to tuck your reports away in your mind and have a
reporting session when you come home on your vacations," her mother
suggested.
"Yes; and I promise you, Captain, that all my vacations will be spent
with _you_." Marjorie pointed an emphatic finger at her mother. "I'll
never desert my Captain and my General when I have a furlough. No, sir!"
"I think I shall hold you to that promise, Lieutenant. You have made it
of your own accord. I would rather have it a free will promise. You will
be away the greater part of the year. Those precious vacations belong to
us. I know General feels the same."
"I wish you both to be very stingy of me. Then I shall be sure you love
me a lot," Marjorie replied with playful emphasis. She no longer felt
like crying. While outdoors the rain continued to beat down; indoors the
sun had broken through the clouds.
"Once, oh, very long ago, you spoke of reading me Jerry's letter," Mrs.
Dean presently reminded. "Then the rain descended and the floods came,
and----"
"We forgot all about it," supplemented Marjorie. "All right, my dearest
Captain, I will proceed to read it to you this minute." This time she
picked it up from the floor. It had dropped from her hand when she had
briefly descended into the valley of woe. Settling herself in an easy
chair, she unfolded the letter and promptly began:
"'Magnificent Marjoram:
"'I want to go home! It is hot here. This part of the globe is getting
ready to burn down. The beach is hot; the hotel is hotter and the sun is
hottest. It was nice and cool here until about a week ago. Then the sun
came rambling along and started to smile. After that he beamed. Now he
is on the job all day with a broad grin. Maybe we don't notice it! Still
our family love to linger in this hot berg. Hal hates to give up the
bathing. Mother and Father are deep in a series of old-fashioned whist.
They meet the same friends here each year, and they always play whist.
They are anxious to stay for the last game in the series.
"'I'm the only one who longs for home. I offered to go home by myself
and keep Lonesome Hall. Mother said, "Nay, nay!" I pleaded that you
would feed and nourish me and let me sleep in your garage until she came
home. That didn't go. Here I languish while some of the Macys swim in
the surf and others of them hold up a hand at whist.
"'Everyone at Severn Beach is growling about the heat. It has never been
like this before. While I'm sitting squarely in front of an electric
fan, I'm moderately cool. The minute I move off from it, I'm wilted. The
last leaf of the last rose of summer was beautiful as compared to me at
the end of a perfect day down here.
"'Next year, we are going to the mountains. I don't know which mountains
the folks intend to put up on, but I know where Jeremiah is going. I'm
going straight to the top of Mount Everest, which our good old geography
used to inform us was the highest peak on earth. Five miles high! Think
of it! I shall go clear to the top and roost there all summer. I shall
have my meals brought up to me three times a day. That means five miles
per meal for somebody. I certainly shall not go after them myself. It
will be a wonderful vacation! So restful! Tell you more about it when I
see you. You may go along if you happen to need perfect peace and rest.
"'Oh, Marjorie, I am so anxious to see you and talk my head off! There
isn't a single girl at the beach this year that amounts to a handful of
popcorn. They are so terribly grown-up and foolish; idiotic I might
better say. They make eyes at poor old Hal and he gets so wrathy. Every
time he sees one coming towards him, when he is down on the main
veranda, you ought to see him arise and vanish. Sometimes, when he gets
so disgusted he has to talk, he comes around and tells me how silly he
thinks they are. Then, to tease him, I tell him he shouldn't be so
beautiful. You ought to hear him rave. If there is anything he hates it
is to be called "beautiful."
"'By the way, how are you enjoying this letter? Great, isn't it? I am
trying to tell you all the news, only there is none to tell. Oh, I
almost forgot. I must tell you of the lovely walk I had one day last
week. I came in from bathing one morning and thought I would take a walk
around the town. It had been raining early in the morning and then had
grown quite cool for this furnace.
"'I dressed up in a new white pongee suit, which is very becoming to
Jeremiah, and I wore my best round white hemp hat. It is imported and
cost money.
"'I started out and walked briskly up one avenue and briskly down
another. Fast walking is supposed to be good exercise for people who
weigh one hundred and forty pounds, when they are hoping to weigh one
twenty-five. I won't speak of myself. The streets of this town were
paved just after paving was invented, as an advertisement, I suspect,
and they have never been touched since. With this explanation, as Miss
Flint was fond of remarking, I will proceed with my story.
"'I was about half way across one of these ancient, hobblety-gobble
outrages, when I came to grief. My feet slipped on a slimy brick and I
landed flat on my back in a puddle of dirty water. I hit my poor head an
awful bang. I'm speaking of myself all right enough now. I was so mad I
couldn't think of anything to say. All my choicest slang flew away when
I whacked my head. My nice round hemp hat was saved a ducking. It jumped
off my head and almost across the street. Some little jumper, that hat!
An obliging breeze caught it, and it scuttled off around the corner and
would have been home ahead of me if it hadn't collided with a horse
block. It sat down with a flop and waited for me.
"'The spectators to Jeremiah's fall were three children, a horse, and an
old green and yellow parrot. The kiddies weren't impressed, but the
parrot yelled and ha-ha-ed and enjoyed himself a whole lot. He was in a
cage hung on a porch right near where I fell. I don't know what the
horse thought. He behaved like a gentleman, though. He didn't either
rubber or laugh. That's more than I can say of the other witnesses to my
disaster.
"'But, on with my narrative. I'll leave you to imagine how I looked. My
white pongee suit was no longer suitable. It was a disgrace to the noble
house of Macy. I had to get home, just the same, so I faced about and
hit up a pace for the hotel. I had gone about two blocks when I met a
jitney. I never enjoyed meeting anyone so much before as that jitney
man. Of course the hotel verandas were full of people. It was just
before luncheon and folks were sitting around, hopefully waiting for the
dining rooms to open.
"'Fortunately it was my back that had suffered injury from the mud. I
gave one look to see who was behind me. There was no one but an old man
in a wheel chair and a couple of spoons. They were so busy beaming on
each other that I was a blank to them. I made a dash for the side
entrance to the hotel and caught the elevator going up. I went with it.
Thus ends the tale of Jeremiah's fateful walk. Thus ends my news also.
When you hear from me again, it will probably be in person. I shall hit
the trail for Sanford, first chance I have. I must stop now and go to
dinner. I send you the faithful devotion of a loyal Lookout. That is no
mean little dab of affection. Remember me to your mother and pat Ruffle
for me. Now that I'm ending this letter, I can think of a lot of things
to tell you. Oh, well, I'll write 'em another day or else say 'em.
"'Lovingly your friend,
"'Jerry Macy.'"
Marjorie had stopped reading to laugh more than once at Jerry's droll
phrasing. "Isn't Jerry funny, Mother?" she exclaimed. "Hal is funny,
too. Still he isn't so funny as Jerry. I think----"
Whatever Marjorie might have further said regarding Jerry's letter
remained unspoken. Her gaze chancing to travel to a window, she sprang
to her feet with an exclamation of surprise. Next she ran to the window
and peered curiously out. A taxicab from the station had stopped before
the gate. From the house it was not easy to distinguish, through the
driving rain, the identity of the solitary fare, for whom the driver had
left his machine to open the gate. It was a slim girlish figure, too
slender to be Jerry. Through the mist Marjorie caught the smart lines of
a navy blue rain coat, buttoned to the chin and a gleam of bright hair
under a tight-lined blue hat.
Could it be? Marjorie's heart began a tattoo of joy. It didn't seem
possible--yet the blue-clad figure, making for the house at a run, was
unmistakable.
"Captain, it's Ronny!" she shrieked in a high jubilant treble. "She just
got out of a taxicab and she's here!"
Without stopping to make further explanation, Marjorie rushed to the
front door to welcome the last person she had expected to see on that
stormy morning, Veronica Lynne.