"Be sure not to pack your white lace dress, Lieutenant." Marjorie
delivered this reminder from the open doorway of the pretty blue room
which Mary had so long regarded as her own special nook.
From a kneeling position before her trunk Mary Raymond turned her head,
her eyes two mournful blue stars. "It's over there," she returned,
nodding somberly toward the bed. "Everything else that had to be packed
is packed. I can put my dress in the last thing to-night. I'm so glad
Connie is home in time to see me off on my journey. I hope she and
Charlie will come over early this afternoon."
"They will." The blithe assurance held a significance which Mary did not
catch. The shadow of the coming separation now hung more heavily upon
her. Marjorie's cheery reply caused her to wonder vaguely if her chum
would really miss her so very much. The next instant she put the thought
away from her as unworthy. Of course Marjorie would miss her. Still she
could scarcely be blamed if she did not. In spite of the long, happy
summer they had spent together, occasionally the past rose to torture
Mary.
Packing her effects had been a severe trial. Everything she touched
called forth memories. There was the blue linen frock she had worn on
the morning of her first entrance into Sanford High School. The very
sight of it filled her with remorse. And the dress she had worn on
Christmas Day, when the merciful Flag of Truce had bade a halt to the
hostilities which her own unreasonable jealousy had created. More than
one tear had fallen on the various dainty articles of wearing apparel as
she consigned them to her trunk. She wished above all to be brave and
cheerful, even to the very moment of farewell, but she found it hard to
fight back the terrible feeling of oppression that clutched at her
heart.
From her position in the doorway, Marjorie had watched Mary for a moment
or two before speaking. She had guessed that the work of packing would
be something of a dolorous labor, which Mary might prefer to perform
alone. At heart she, too, was sad, but in her mind lurked a pleasant
knowledge which for the present Mary did not share. It was this
particular bit of knowledge that made it difficult for her to keep a
sober face as she met Mary's doleful gaze.
"I'm going to wear white, too," she said brightly. "Captain finished my
new lingerie frock yesterday. As long as you're through packing, why not
get dressed for dinner now? I'm going to, even if it is only three
o'clock. Then when Connie and Charlie come we can take a stroll down to
Sargent's. That is, if we care to." Again her lovely face threatened to
break forth into the smiles.
"All right." Mary's acquiescence came rather listlessly. Rising from the
floor she began somewhat spiritless preparations toward making ready to
receive the expected guests.
"I'm going to my house now to put on my costliest raiment." Flashing a
mischievous glance toward Mary, Marjorie disappeared from the doorway
and tripped down the hall. Once inside her "house," as she had
whimsically named her pink and white room, she executed a gleeful little
dance for her own benefit. "She doesn't suspect a thing," was her
jubilant comment.
But while the two girls were engaged in arraying themselves to do honor
to Constance, a most peculiar state of affairs was in progress
downstairs. Through the wide flung hall door, one after another flitted
a mysterious procession of girls, moving with the noiseless tread of a
flock of ghosts. Their bright-eyed, smiling faces and gala attire,
however, marked them as being particularly human. One of the seven
specters bore a strong resemblance to Mary herself, and the diminutive
black-eyed sprite she led by the hand seemed on the verge of breaking
forth into an ecstatic flow of joyful sounds.
Apparently, Mrs. Dean had also been suddenly bereft of speech. Only her
twinkling eyes and smiling lips gave sign of just how greatly welcome
were her silent guests. Ushering them into the living room she nodded
brightly, laid a warning finger to her lips and softly withdrew, pulling
together the silken portieres. A half-smothered giggle, to which no
self-respecting ghost would have stooped to give utterance, followed
her. Then profound stillness reigned within.
"Are you ready, Mary?" A bewitching, brown-eyed vision in white pranced
in upon Mary as she was slowly adjusting the soft loops of her wide,
white ribbon sash. "Let me tie your sash." Marjorie's nimble fingers set
themselves to work. "There you are. You do look so perfectly sweet in
white. Now smile and say prettily, 'Thank you for them kind words, Miss
Marjorie.' That's what Delia always says when she dresses up and I tell
her how fine she looks."
Marjorie's buoyant spirits were so irresistible as to bring the coveted
light into Mary's mournful eyes. "Forward, march! Here we go." Seizing
Mary gently by the shoulders she marched her down the hall to the
stairway. "Break ranks," she ordered. "The gallant regiment can't afford
to tumble downstairs."
"Halt!" came the order, as Mary reached the lower hall a step ahead of
her commander. "We will now make an invasion on the living room. Two's
right, march!"
Mary obediently marched. Of her own accord she came to an abrupt halt.
"Oh!" she gasped. Her amazed exclamation was drowned in a chorus of
gleeful shouts as seven very lively apparitions closed in around her.
"Charlie never said a word!" shrieked a high, triumphant voice. "We
comed to see you. Hooray!" A small, joyful figure hurled itself straight
into Mary's arms. She stooped and hugged him close, her golden head bent
to the youngster's. Straightening, she glimpsed the affectionate circle
of girls through a mist of unbidden tears. "I'm so glad and so surprised
to see all of you," she faltered. "And you knew it all the time!" She
caught Marjorie's hand.
"Of course I knew it. Now we are even. You gave me a surprise party
once, so I thought I'd return the compliment," laughed Marjorie. "I
could hardly keep it to myself, though. Every time I looked at you I
wanted to say, 'Cheer up, the best is yet to come.'"
"It's a good thing it wasn't long coming," retorted Jerry Macy. "I never
knew how much I liked to talk until I had to keep still."
"You must have slipped into the house like shadows," declared Mary
happily. Her sad expression had quite vanished with the unexpected honor
that had been done her. She felt that, after all, she held some small
place in the affections of Marjorie's intimate friends, and the cloud of
doubt that had obsessed her rolled away.
"We did do that arriving stunt rather well," was Harriet Delaney's
complacent comment. "Of course, Susie giggled. We expected she would,
though. The rest of us were above reproach."
"No wonder I giggled," defended Susan Atwell. "If you had been the last
one in line you'd have laughed, too. You girls looked as if you were
trying to walk on eggshells, and when Jerry crossed the room in about
three steps, it was too much for me." Susan's cheerful chuckle broke
forth anew and went the rounds.
"Well, children, what is your pleasure?" inquired Marjorie. "Shall we
stay here, or sit on the veranda, or establish ourselves in the pagoda,
or what?"
"The pagoda for mine," decided Jerry, "provided the rest of you are of
the same mind. We can sit in a circle and tell sad stories of the deaths
of kings, etc. All those in favor of this lively pastime please say
'Aye;' contrary, keep quiet."
"Aye," came the willing response.
"What for is 'Aye?'" calmly demanded Charlie Stevens of Mary, to whom he
had immediately attached himself.
"Oh, it means that Charlie can go out with us to the summer house and
have a nice time, if he would like to," explained Mary.
"Charlie don't want to," was the frank response. "Where's Delia?" Fond
recollections of frequent visits to the Dean kitchen, invariably
productive of toothsome gifts, lurked in the foreground. "Delia likes to
see me."
"You mean you like to see Delia," laughed Constance. "But you know you
came to see Mrs. Dean and Marjorie and Mary," she reminded.
"I've seen them. Now I have to see Delia."
"Delia wins the day," smiled Mrs. Dean. "You are all jilted. Very well,
Charlie, you and I will pay our respects to Delia. Come on." She
stretched forth an inviting hand to the little boy, who accepted it
joyfully, and trotted off with her to invade good-natured Delia's
domain.
"As long as our one cavalier has been lured away from us by Delia we
might as well try to console one another," laughed Marjorie.
"He's growing terribly spoiled," apologized Constance. "My aunt adores
him and thinks he must have everything he asks for. He's a good little
boy, though, in spite of all the petting he gets."
"He's a perfect darling," dimpled Susan Atwell. "He says such quaint,
funny things. Has he ever tried to run away since the night of the
operetta?"
"No." Constance made brief reply. Her gaze wandered to Mary Raymond, who
was talking busily with Harriet Delaney and Esther Lind. The vision of a
fair-haired, blue-eyed girl, leading a small run-away up to the stage
door of the theatre rose before her. Next to Marjorie Dean, Mary ranked
second in her heart. Constance felt suddenly very humble in the
possession of two such wonderful friends. Life had been kinder to her
than she deserved was her grateful thought.
Susan eyed her curiously. Although she was very fond of Constance, she
did not in the least understand her. Now she said rather timidly, "I
hope you didn't mind because I spoke of the operetta and Charlie's
running away, Connie?"
Constance promptly came out of her day-dream. "You brought it all back
to me," she smiled. "I was just wondering what I'd ever done to deserve
such friends as I've made here in Sanford. I can't bear to think that
Mary won't be with us this year."
Before Susan could reply, Jerry interrupted them with, "Come along,
girls. The sooner we get settled the longer we'll have to talk."
It was a merry, light-hearted band that strolled out of the house and
across the lawn to the honeysuckle-draped pagoda, situated at the far
end of the velvety stretch of green. Mary and Marjorie brought up the
rear, their arms piled high with bright-hued cushions, and the guests
soon disposed themselves on the bench built circular fashion around the
pagoda, or sought the comfort of the several wicker chairs.
Brought together again after more than two months' separation, a busy
wagging of tongues was in order, mingled with the ready laughter that
high-spirited youth alone knows. Everyone had something interesting to
tell of her vacation and rejoiced accordingly in the telling. Father
Time flew in his fleetest fashion, but no one of the group paid the
slightest attention to the fact. From vacation, the conversation
gradually drifted into school channels and a lively discussion of junior
plans ensued.
"By the way, girls," remarked Jerry Macy with the careless assumption of
casualty which was her favorite method of procedure when about to retail
some amazing bit of news. "Did you know that Miss Archer almost decided
to resign her position at Sanford High for one in Chicago?"
"Of course _we_ didn't know it, and _you_ know we didn't," laughed Susan
Atwell. "Whenever Jerry begins with 'By the way,' and tries to look
innocent you may know she has something startling to offer."
"Where on earth do you pick up all your news, Jerry?" asked Constance
Stevens. "You always seem to know everything about everybody."
"Oh, it just happens to come my way," grinned Jerry. "I heard about Miss
Archer from my father. He's just been elected to the Board of
Education."
"She isn't really going to leave Sanford High, is she, Jerry?" An
anxious frown puckered Marjorie's smooth forehead. She hated to think of
high school without Miss Archer.
"No. At first she thought she would, but afterward she decided that
she'd rather stay here. She told father that she had grown so fond of
the dear old school she couldn't bear to leave it. I'm certainly glad
she's not going to resign. If she did we might have kind, delightful
Miss Merton for a principal. Then--_good night_!" Jerry relapsed into
slang to emphasize her disgust of such a possibility.
"I shouldn't like that," Marjorie remarked bluntly. "Still, I can't help
feeling a little bit sorry for Miss Merton. She shuts out all the
bright, pleasant things in life and just sticks to the disagreeable
ones. Sometimes I wonder if she was ever young or had ever been happy."
"She's been a regular Siberian crab-apple ever since I can remember,"
grumbled Jerry. "Why, when I was a kidlet in knee skirts she was the
terror of Sanford High. I guess she must have been crossed in love about
a hundred years ago." Jerry giggled a trifle wickedly.
"She was," affirmed quiet Irma with a smile, "but not a hundred years
ago. I never knew it until this summer."
"Here is something I don't seem to know about," satirized Jerry. "How
did that happen, I wonder?"
"Don't keep us in suspense, Irma," implored Muriel Harding. "If Miss
Merton ever had a love affair it's your duty to tell us about it. I
can't imagine such an impossibility. Did it happen here in Sanford? How
did you come to hear of it?"
A circle of eager faces were turned expectantly toward Irma. "My aunt,
whom I visited this summer, told me about it," she began. "She lived in
Sanford when she was a girl and knew Miss Merton then. They went to
school together. There were no high schools then; just an academy for
young men and women. Miss Merton was really a pretty girl. She had pink
cheeks and bright eyes and beautiful, heavy, dark hair. She had a
sister, too, who wasn't a bit pretty.
"They were very quiet girls who hardly ever went to parties and never
paid much attention to the boys they knew in Sanford. When Miss Merton
was about eighteen and her sister twenty-one, a handsome young naval
officer came to visit some friends in Sanford on a furlough. He was
introduced to both sisters, and called on them two or three times. They
lived with their father in that little house on Sycamore Street where
Miss Merton still lives. The young ensign's furlough was nearly over
when he met them, so he didn't have much time to get well acquainted
with them. The night before he went away he asked Miss Merton if he
might write to her and she said 'Yes.'"
"Some story," cut in Jerry. "And did he write?"
"Don't interrupt me, Jeremiah," reproved Irma. "Yes, he wrote, but----"
"Miss Merton never got the letter," supplemented the irrepressible
Jerry. "That's the way it always happens in books."
"All right. You may tell the rest of it," teased Irma, her eyes
twinkling.
"Someone please smother Jerry's head in a sofa cushion, so she can't
interrupt," pleaded Harriet.
"Try it," challenged Jerry. "Excuse me, Irma. I solemnly promise to
behave like a clam. On with the miraculous, marvelous memoirs of
meritorious Miss Merton."
"Where was I? Oh, yes. The young ensign wrote, as he thought, to Miss
Merton, but in some way he had confused the two sisters' first names. So
he wrote to Alice Merton, her sister, instead, thinking it was our Miss
Merton."
"How awful! The very idea! What a dreadful mistake!" came from the
highly interested listeners.
"The sister was delighted because she liked the ensign a lot and thought
he didn't care much about her. You can imagine how Miss Merton felt. She
never said a word to anyone then about his asking her if he might write.
She thought he had just been flirting with her when really he had fallen
in love with her. Then his ship went on a trip around the world, but he
kept on writing to the sister, and at last he asked her to marry him. So
they were engaged and he sent her a beautiful diamond ring. They planned
to be married when he received his next furlough. But when he came to
Sanford to claim his bride, he found that he had made a terrible
mistake."
"What did he do then?" chorused half a dozen awed voices.
"Oh, he made the best of it and married the sister," Irma replied with a
shrug. "I suppose he felt that he couldn't very well do anything else.
Perhaps he didn't have the courage to. But one day before his wedding he
went to the house and found Miss Merton alone. She had been crying and
he felt so sorry that he tried to find out what was the matter. Somehow
they came to an understanding, but it was too late. Three or four years
after that he was drowned during a storm at sea. Miss Merton never quite
got over it all, and it changed her disposition, I guess."
"What a sad story." Constance Stevens' blue eyes were soft with
sympathy.
"That makes Miss Merton seem like a different person, doesn't it?"
Marjorie thoughtfully knitted her brows.
"I suppose that is why she acts as though she hated young people,"
offered Mary. "We probably remind her of her cheated youth."
"She should have been particular enough to let that stupid ensign know
that she was she," criticized practical Jerry. "I'm glad I haven't a
sister. There's no danger of any future aspirant for my hand and heart
getting me mixed with Hal."
The sentimental shadow cast upon the group by Irma's romantic tale
disappeared in a gale of laughter.
"Honestly, Jerry Macy, you haven't the least idea of romance," giggled
Susan. "Here Irma tells us a real love story and you spoil it all about
a minute afterward."
"Can't help it," asserted Jerry stoutly. "I have to say what I think."
"Oh, here come Captain and Charlie," cried Marjorie, sighting a gracious
figure in white descending the steps with Charlie in tow. "That means
dinner is about to be served, children. Our farewell feast to Lieutenant
Mary Raymond."