Everybody knows the trite saying: "It never rains but that it pours."
The disasters of the following week seemed quite in accord with it.
Muriel's spectacular slide down the ice steps brought her a broken
collarbone. The three anxious girls had awaited news of Muriel at
Marjorie's home had hardly taken their leave when the ring of the
postman brought her fresh misery. Little knowing what he did, that
patient individual handed Marjorie a letter which filled her with angry
consternation. Why in the world had the hated Observer come to life
again at such a time?
Without waiting to read the unwelcome epistle in her Captain's presence,
Marjorie ripped open the envelope with a savage hand. This time the
unknown was detestably brief, writing merely:
"Miss Dean:
"I hope you lose the game next Saturday. You are more of a snob than
ever. Defeat will do you good. Prepare to meet it.
"The Observer."
"Oh!" Marjorie dashed the offending letter to the floor. Muriel's
accident was bad enough. It had not needed this to complete her
dejection. Recapturing the spiteful message she was about to tear it
into bits. On second reflection she decided to keep it and add it to her
obnoxious collection. Something whispered to her that the identity of
the tormenting Observer would yet be revealed to her.
Facing the lamentable knowledge that Muriel must be counted out of the
coming contest, Harriet replaced her. This in itself provided a grain of
comfort. Harriet was a skilful player and would work for the success of
the team with all her energy. The other four players congratulated
themselves on thus having such able support. Due to Muriel's absence,
Marjorie had been asked to assume temporary captainship. Her mind now at
ease by reason of Harriet's good work, she gave her most conscientious
attention to practice.
Matters skimmed along with commendable smoothness until the Wednesday
before the game. Then she encountered a fresh set-back. Word came to her
that Susan Atwell had succumbed to the dreaded tonsilitis that all
through the winter had been going its deadly round in Sanford. On
receipt of the news she recalled that for the past two days Susan had
complained of sore throat. She had given it no serious thought, however.
Her own throat had also troubled her a trifle since that stormy day when
Muriel had come to grief. There was but one thing to do. Put Lucy Warner
in Susan's position. Her heart almost skipped a beat as she faced the
fact that Lucy, too, had been absent from school for over a week.
Someone had said that Lucy was also ill. Marjorie reproached herself for
not having inquired more closely about the peculiar green-eyed junior.
"I ought to have gone to see her," she reflected. "I'll go to-night.
Perhaps she is almost well by this time, and can come back to school in
time for the game. If she can't, then I'd better ask Mignon to play in
Susan's place."
School over for the day she accosted Jerry and Irma with, "I can only
walk as far as the corner with you to-night. I'm going to see Lucy
Warner. She's been sick for over a week. Did you ever hear of such bad
luck as the team has been having lately? I feel so discouraged and tired
out. I don't believe I'll try for the team next year." Marjorie's
usually sprightliness was entirely missing. Her voice had taken on a
weary tone and her brown eyes had lost their pretty sparkle.
"You'd better go straight home and take care of _yourself_," gruffly
advised Jerry, "or you won't be fit to play on the team Saturday."
"Oh, I'm all right." Marjorie made an attempt to look cheerful. "I'm not
feeling ill. My throat is a little bit sore. I caught cold that day
Muriel fell down the steps. But it's nothing serious. I shall go to bed
at eight o'clock to-night and have a long sleep. I'm just tired; not
sick. I must leave you here. Good-bye. See you to-morrow." Nodding
brightly she left the two and turned down a side street.
"See us to-morrow," sniffed Jerry. "Humph! I doubt it, unless we go to
her house. She's about half sick now. It's the first time I ever saw her
look that way. She's so brave, though. She'd fight to keep up if she
were dying."
Meanwhile, as she plodded down the snowy street on her errand of mercy,
Marjorie was, indeed, fighting to make herself believe that she was
merely a little tired. Despite her languor, generosity prompted her to
stop in passing a fruit store and purchase an attractive basket filled
with various fruits likely to tempt the appetite of a sick person. She
wondered if Lucy would resent the offering. She was such a queer,
self-contained little creature.
"What a dingy house!" was her thought, as she floundered her way through
a stretch of deep snow to Lucy's unpretentious home. Detached from its
neighbors, it stood unfenced, facing a bit of field, which the small
boys of Sanford used in summer as a ball ground. It was across this
field that Marjorie was obliged to wend a course made difficult by a
week's fall of snow that blanketed it. An irregular path made by the
passing and repassing of someone's feet led up to the door. It appeared
that the Warners were either too busy or else unable to clear their
walk.
Finding no bell, Marjorie removed her glove and knocked on the
weather-stained front door. It was opened by a frail little woman with a
white, tired face and faded blue eyes. She stared in amazement at the
trim, fur-coated girl before her, whose attractive appearance betokened
affluence. "How do you do?" she greeted in evident embarrassment.
"Good afternoon. Are you Mrs. Warner?" Marjorie asked brightly. "I have
come to see Lucy. How is she to-day? I am Marjorie Dean."
"Oh, are you Miss Dean? I mailed a letter she wrote you several days
ago. Come in, please," invited the woman cordially. "I am very glad to
see you. I am sure Lucy will be. She is better but still in bed. Will
you take off your wraps?"
"No, thank you. I can't stay very long. I feel guilty at not coming to
see her sooner. What is the trouble with her--tonsilitis? So many people
in Sanford are having it." Marjorie looked slightly mystified over Mrs.
Warner's reference to the letter. She had received no letter from Lucy.
She decided, however, that she would ask Lucy.
"No; she was threatened with pneumonia, but managed to escape with a
severe cold. I will take you to her. She is upstairs."
Following Mrs. Warner up a narrow stairway that led up from a bare,
cheerless sitting room, Marjorie was forced to contrast the dismal place
with the Deans' luxurious living room. Why was it, she sadly pondered,
that she had been given so much and Lucy so little? The Warners' home
was even more poverty-stricken than the little gray house in which
Constance Stevens had once lived. Then she had deplored that same
contrast between herself and Constance.
"Miss Dean has come to see you, Lucy," said Mrs. Warner. Marjorie had
followed the woman into a plain little bedroom, equally bare and
desolate.
"You!" Glimpsing Marjorie behind her mother, Lucy sat up in bed, her
green eyes growing greener with horrified disapproval.
"Yes, I." Marjorie flushed as she strove to answer playfully. That
single unfriendly word of greeting had wounded her deeply. The very fact
that, half sick herself, she had waded through the snow to call on Lucy
gave her a fleeting sense of injury. She tried to hide it by quickly
saying: "I must apologize for not visiting you sooner. Our team has had
so many mishaps, I have been busy trying to keep things going. I brought
you some fruit to cheer you up."
"I will leave you girls to yourselves," broke in Mrs. Warner. As she
went downstairs she wondered at her daughter's ungracious behavior to
this lovely young friend. Lucy was such a strange child. Even she could
not always fathom her odd ways.
"Why have you come to see me?" demanded Lucy, hostile and inhospitable.
All the time her lambent green eyes remained fixed upon Marjorie.
"Why shouldn't I come to see you?" Marjorie gave a nervous little laugh.
Privately she wished she had not come. Embarrassment at the unfriendly
reception drove the question of the letter from her mind.
"You never noticed me in school," pursued Lucy relentlessly. "Why should
you now?"
"You would never let me be friends with you," was Marjorie's honest
retort. "I've tried ever so many times. I have always admired you. You
are so bright and make such brilliant recitations."
"What does that matter when one is poor and always out of things?" came
the bitter question.
"Oh, being poor doesn't count. It's the real you that makes the
difference. When I was a little girl we were quite poor. We aren't rich
now; just in comfortable circumstances. If I chose my friends for their
money I'd be a very contemptible person. You mustn't look at matters in
that light. It's wrong. It shuts you away from all the best things in
life; like love and friendship and contentment. I wish you had said this
to me long ago. Then we would have understood each other and been
friends."
"I can never be your friend," stated the girl solemnly.
"Why not?" Marjorie's eyes widened. "Perhaps I ought not to ask you
that. It sounded conceited. I can't blame you if you don't like me.
There are many persons I can't like, either. Sometimes I try to like
them, but I seldom succeed," she made frank admission.
"You are a puzzling girl," asserted Lucy, her green eyes wavering under
Marjorie's sweetly naïve confession. "Either you are very deceitful, or
else I have made a terrible mistake." She suddenly lay back in bed, half
hiding her brown head in the pillow.
"I would rather think that you had made a mistake." The rose in
Marjorie's cheeks deepened. "I try never to be deceitful."
Lucy did not reply, but buried her face deeper in the pillow. An
oppressive silence ensued, during which Marjorie racked her brain as to
what she had best say next. What ailed Lucy? She was even queerer than
Marjorie had supposed.
With a convulsive jerk Lucy suddenly sat upright. Marjorie was relieved
to observe no indication of tears in the probing green eyes. She had
feared Lucy might be crying. Why she should cry was a mystery, however.
"If you had made a mistake about someone and then done a perfectly
dreadful thing and afterward found out that it was all a mistake, what
would you do?" Lucy queried with nervous intensity.
"I--that's a hard question to answer. It would depend a good deal on what
I had done and who the person was."
"But if the person didn't know that it was you who did it, would you
tell them?" continued Lucy.
"If I had hurt them very much, I think my conscience would torment me
until I did," Marjorie said slowly. "It would be hard, of course, but it
would be exactly what I deserved. But why do you ask me such strange
things?"
"Because I must know. I've done something wrong and I've got to face it.
I've just found out that I have a very lively conscience. What you said
is true. I deserve to suffer. I am the Observer." Lucy dropped back on
her pillow, her long, black lashes veiling her peculiarly colored eyes.
Undiluted amazement tied Marjorie's tongue. Staring at the pitifully
white, small face against the pillow, she came into a flashing,
emotional knowledge of the embittered spirit that had prompted the
writing of those vexatious letters. "You poor little thing!" she cried
out compassionately. The next instant her soft hands held one of Lucy's
in a caressing clasp.
Lucy's heavy lids lifted. "I don't wonder your friends love you," she
said somberly. Her free hand came to rest lightly on Marjorie's arm. "I
know now that I could have been your friend, too."
"But you shall be from this minute on," Marjorie replied, her pretty
face divinely tender. "You've proved your right to be. It was brave in
you to tell me. If you hadn't been the right sort of girl you might have
decided to like me and kept what you told me to yourself. I would never
have known the difference. I am glad that I do know. It takes away the
shadow. I understand that you must have suffered a great deal. I blame
myself, too. I'm afraid I've thought too much about my own pleasure and
seemed snobbish."
"I wouldn't have done it, only one Sunday when you were walking along
with that Miss Macy and that girl who used to live at your house, I met
you and you didn't speak to me. All three of you were dressed
beautifully. It made me feel so bad. I was wearing an old gray suit, and
I thought you cut me on account of my clothes. I know now that I was
wrong. That was the beginning of the mistake. Then when you girls had
those expensive basket ball suits made, I thought you chose them just to
be mean to me. Of course, I didn't expect to be invited to your parties,
but it hurt me to be passed by all the time in school."
"I never saw you that day, and I'm sure we never thought about how it
might look to others when we ordered our suits. You've taught me a
lesson, Lucy. One ought to be made careful about such things in a large
school. Someone is sure to be made unhappy. Now we must put all the bad
things away for good and think only of the nice ones. When you get well
you are going to have some good times with me. My friends will like you,
too. No one must ever know about--well, about the mistake."
But Lucy could not thus easily take things for granted. Remorse had set
in and she felt that she ought to be punished for her fault. After
considerable cheerful persuasion, Marjorie brought her into an easier
frame of mind. When finally she said good-bye she left behind her a most
humble Observer who had given her word thereafter to observe life from a
happier angle.
Once away from the house a feeling of heavy lassitude overwhelmed the
patient Lieutenant. It had been a strenuous hike to a trying engagement.
Her head swam dizzily as she stumbled through the drifted field to
better walking. Her wet shoes and stockings added to her misery. How her
cheeks burned and how dreadfully her throat ached! Was Jerry's
prediction about to be fulfilled? Was she only tired out, or had actual
sickness descended upon her just when she needed most to be well?