That evening as Hal assisted the two girls into the tonneau of the
limousine, he was of the romantic opinion that he had merely persuaded a
couple of stray moonbeams to ride with him. The light of the fair,
increasing moon endowed the duo with a peculiar ethereal beauty which
gave him a feeling of reverence. Girls were mostly like flowers was his
boyish comparison. The most beautiful flower of them all was Marjorie.
Someday he would dare tell her so, but not for a long time.
Arrived at Gray Gables Hal had no further opportunity to "moon." The
rest of the company had arrived and were impatiently awaiting them. The
limousine had hardly come to a stop on the drive when out of the house
they trooped, shouting the Sanford and Weston High School yells by way
of welcome. Danny Seabrooke and the Crane then broke into the "Stars and
Stripes" on mouth organs. Miles Burton rattled out a lively
accompaniment on little Charlie Stevens' toy drum.
"I had no idea I was so popular." Hal bowed his thanks to the noisy
musicians.
"You are not," the Crane hastened to inform him. "That choice selection
we just rendered was in honor of the girls. Don't credit yourself with
everything. It's horribly conceited."
"I'm glad you named it as a 'selection,'" Hal made scathing retort.
"What, may I ask, would you name it?" queried Danny with a dangerous
affability.
"Making night hideous, or, a disgraceful racket, or, the last
convulsions of a would-be jazz band. Any little appellation like that
would be strictly appropriate." Hal beamed ironically on the three.
"Nice little drummer boy you have there."
Supposedly offended, Danny could not repress a loud snicker at this
fling. Miles Burton stood six feet, minus shoes. With Charlie's toy drum
strung round his neck on a narrow blue ribbon, he was distinctly
mirth-inspiring.
"Throw any more remarks like that about me and you'll find out my real
disposition," warned Miles in a deep bass growl.
"Come ladies; let us hasten on before trouble overtakes us--me, I mean.
Back, varlets. Grab your instruments of torture and begone." Hal grandly
motioned the objectionable varlets out of the way.
"That's what I say," called Jerry from the top step. "For once I agree
with Hal. Let the girls come up on the porch, can't you? You four
sillies can stay outside and rave. Notice how well Laurie and Harry are
behaving. Try to be a little like them, if you can."
"You can't know them as I do," rumbled Miles.
"No; I _guess not_," emphasized Hal. "Well, I'd rather be called a silly
than a varlet."
"That will do from all of you." Jerry ran down the steps and with a few
energetic waves of the arms drove the masculine half of the guests up
onto the brightly-lighted veranda. There the entire company lingered to
talk, presently strolling into the long old-fashioned drawing room which
Constance used for dancing purposes when entertaining her friends.
"Be happy and make yourselves at home," she said in her pretty, graceful
fashion. "Father and Uncle John will soon be here to play for us. They
are helping Mr. Beaver, the leader of the Sanford orchestra, organize
some of the Sanford working boys into an orchestra. It's a fine idea. I
think Father and Uncle John will help him all they can whenever they are
at home."
Marjorie cast a quick, inquiring look toward Constance. Her eyes
luminous with affection, she asked: "Has it come at last, Connie?"
"Yes, Marjorie," Constance answered, in a proud, happy tone. "I would
like you to know," she continued, turning to the others, "that Uncle
John is to be a first violin in Father's symphony orchestra. You can
understand just how glad we feel about it."
Connie's news met with an echoing shout. All present cherished the
warmest regard for gentle Uncle John, who had ever been so willing to
play for them. Far removed from poverty, he had gradually regained the
lost faculty of memory and could now be relied upon for symphony work.
"Oh, just wait until he gets home!" promised Hal. "Won't he get a
reception, though?"
"Surest thing in the world!" Laurie's dark blue eyes were darker from
emotion. Laurie had known for a very long time that, if Constance's
adopted family were not his own, some future day, it would not be his
fault.
"That explains why we haven't seen Charlie," smiled Marjorie. "He is
actually helping, at last, to organize a big band. I meant to ask for
him. There was so much sarcasm being hurled back and forth, my voice
would have been lost in the uproar," she slyly added.
"He took his violin and music. The music was a lot of old stray song
sheets. He will play them and put everyone out, if he has a chance,"
Constance predicted with an infectious little giggle.
The entrance of Miss Allison into the drawing room brought the young
folks to their feet. Her fondness for youth made her a welcome addition
at their parties. She particularly enjoyed Danny Seabrooke's antics and
the sham penalties they invariably brought on him.
"You young gentlemen will soon be leaving for college as well as our
girls," she remarked to Hal. "I am glad Laurie has decided to go through
college before making music his profession. He really needs the college
training. Constance, on the contrary, will do as well to begin her
training for grand opera at once. She must study Italian and Spanish.
That, with her vocal practice, will keep her fully occupied. How I shall
miss my boys and girls! They have been life to me." Miss Allison's
delicate features saddened unconsciously.
A muffled sob, too realistic to be genuine, rent the air at her right.
Her sad expression vanished as her eyes lighted upon the mourner.
Slumped into the depths of a big velvet chair, Danny was struggling
visibly with his sorrowful emotions.
"To see us all here tonight, who would dream of the parting to come so
soon-n; s-o s-o-o-o-on-n!" he wailed, covering his freckled,
grief-stricken countenance with both hands. No one arising to assuage
his sorrow, his gurgles and sobs grew louder.
"Won't some one please choke off that bellow?" Laurie viewed the
perpetrator of the melancholy sounds with a cold, unrelenting eye.
"_De_-lighted." Hal rose from a seat on the davenport beside Marjorie
and advanced with threatening deliberation upon Danny.
"You needn't mind. I am getting used to the idea of parting now." The
"bellow" ceased like magic. Danny spoke in a small, sad voice that might
have belonged to a five-year-old girl. "Soon I shall be able to
contemplate it without a single tear. I could part from _you_," he
suddenly recovered his own voice, "or that ruffian of an Armitage, and
smile; yes, sir; actually _smile_. I'd rather part at any time, and from
anybody than to be murderously 'choked off' by you two bullies."
Danny hastily arose, after this defiant declaration, and retreated to
the lower end of the room. Crowding himself into a small rocking chair
belonging to Charlie, he rocked and smirked at Hal, who had followed him
to the chair and now stood over him.
"Move back a trifle, Mr. Macy. I refuse to be responsible for other
people's shins. I have all I can do to take care of my own. If I were to
kick you, _accidentally_, I should be _so_ sorry!"
"Oh, undoubtedly! Wouldn't you, though?" Bending, with one swift
movement of the arm, Hal upset the rocker and its grinning occupant.
"Now will you be good?" he inquired sarcastically. Leaving the
struggling wag to right himself, Hal strolled back to Marjorie.
The room rang with laughter at Danny's upheaval, nor did it lessen as he
went through a series of ridiculous attempts to rise from the floor. In
the midst of the fun Charlie Stevens marched into the drawing room, his
little leather violin case tucked importantly under one arm, his music
under the other. Behind him were Mr. Stevens and John Roland.
"What for is he doing to my chair?" Charlie asked very severely.
"He's trying to part with it, Charlie, and he's either stuck in it or
pretending he is," Harry Lenox replied to the youngster.
"You mustn't ever sit in a chair that don't look like you, Danny,"
reproved Charlie. "That chair looks like me. You ought to know better."
This was too much for the erring Daniel. With a shout of mirth he
slipped free of the chair, and, catching up the little boy, swung him to
his shoulder. "You're the funniest little old kid on creation!" he
exclaimed.
"That's what I think," returned Charlie, with an innocent complacency
that again brought down the house. From that on Charlie divided honors
with Uncle John, who was due to receive the sincere congratulations of
the young folks he had so often made happy by his music. To see the
white-haired, patient-faced old musician surrounded by his young friends
was a sight that Miss Allison never forgot. When, a little later, she
led Charlie from the room, bedward bound, there was thankfulness in her
heart because she had found the lonely people of the Little Gray House
in time.
With the musicians on the scene, dancing was promptly begun and
continued unflaggingly until a late supper was served in the dining
room. There a surprise awaited Marjorie. While the company were engaged
in eating the dessert, she had a dim idea that something unusual was
pending. She dismissed it immediately as a vague fancy.
Next she became aware that a silence had settled down upon the supper
party. Then Hal Macy rose from his chair and said in his clear, direct
tones: "I am going to read you a little tribute to a very good friend of
ours. I know you will agree with me that Marjorie Dean is largely
responsible for a great many pleasant times we have enjoyed since we
have known her. By that I mean, not only the merry evenings we have
spent at her home, but the happiness that has been ours because of her
fine influence. As well as I could, for I am no poet, I have tried to
put our sentiments into verse. While the meter may be faulty, the
inspiration is flawless."
Applause greeted this frank, graceful little preamble. When it had
subsided, Hal read his verses. They fitly expressed, to the amazed, and
all but overcome, subject of them, the strength of her friends'
devotion. When he had finished she had no words with which to reply. She
was grateful for the fresh round of approbation that began. It gave her
time to force back her tears. She did not wish to break down if she
could help it. She felt that she owed it to Hal to thank him with a
smile.
Hardly had quiet been restored when Constance took the floor. In her
right hand she held an oblong box of white velvet. When she began to
speak, it was directly to Marjorie.
"What Hal has said to you, tonight, Marjorie, is so true and beautiful
that I couldn't better it if I tried. He has expressed just the way we
feel about you, and what your sunny, dear influence has been to us. We
are afraid that someday you may run away and leave us, so we wish to tie
you to us with a bowknot of affection."
Constance flitted the length of the table and around the end to the side
opposite from her seat. Pausing behind Marjorie's chair, she slid a bare
white arm over her chum's shoulder and gently dropped the velvet box in
front of her.
"I--I think I am going to cry," quavered Marjorie, "and I don't--want--to.
Please--I--don't think--I--deserve----"
"I would advise you not to weep, Marjorie, or you may be treated as I
was," warned Danny's bland tones. "It's not safe to sob around here."
Marjorie gave a half tremulous giggle that was the forerunner of
recovery. Her tears checked, her hands trembled as she opened the white
velvet box. Then her emotion became that of sheer wonder. Resting on its
satin bed gleamed a string of graduated pearls from which hung a pearl
pendant in the form of a bowknot.
"What made you do this?" she faltered. "It isn't _I_ who have ever done
anything to make you happy. It's _you_ who have done everything to make
me happy. I don't know what to say, only you are all so dear to me and
thank you."
Constance standing beside Marjorie, an arm over her shoulder, Marjorie
turned and childishly hid her flushed face in the frills of Connie's
white organdie gown. While her thoughts were far from collected, she was
experiencing a gladness of spirit because Constance could thus be her
refuge at a time of overwhelming happiness.