MARJORIE’S PROBLEM
As Marjorie rode along in a taxi that evening she was conscious of a
pleasant tingling sensation—the exhilaration she always experienced when
there was a new problem to be deciphered and solved. Hers was a logical,
practical mind, which exulted in difficulties—difficulties which,
however, were not insurmountable. She found Daisy’s project just to her
liking. At the present moment she had not the slightest idea which might
lead to its accomplishment; and yet she felt sure that in some way one
would come to her. She would never give up without making a tremendous
effort to help Daisy—Daisy, who was always so unselfish, so thoughtful
of others. How like the girl it was to care for such a helpless little
waif, and, at the same time, to put a dying woman’s fears at rest! When
it was a matter of human sympathy and affection, Daisy would never stop
to count the cost.
And then Marjorie thought of Lily, and she wondered in what light she
would view the matter. She alone, of all the girls in the old senior
patrol was in a position to render financial assistance. Would she be
likely to be interested? Perhaps not at first; but no doubt Marjorie
could win her over to her own point of view, just as she had convinced
her that she should insist upon a college education, in spite of the
temporary opposition of her parents. Undoubtedly, she concluded, Lily
would be with her in this, as in all other undertakings; and the
knowledge brought her a fresh source of inspiration and courage.
When she reached Lily’s apartment, she found that her hostess had been
home for some time, impatiently waiting for her arrival. The girls
greeted each other with the old affection; another year of close
companionship had only served to bind them more tightly together.
“Where have you been?” demanded Lily, with the intimacy that admits of
no barriers. “I even thought you’d be here for supper, and left word
with the maid to get you some.”
“No, I stopped at the Evans’s,” replied Marjorie, “and had supper
there.”
“How are they? Is Florence coming to the luncheon?”
“Yes, indeed! So is Daisy Gravers. And we’re just dying to know who is
engaged.”
“If you had bought a paper tonight, you would have found out,” laughed
Lily. “But see whether you can guess.”
“One of our old bunch—_the_ eight, I mean?” asked Marjorie.
“Yes.”
“Then it must be Doris!”
“Righto! I thought you’d know immediately. To Roger Harris.”
“Well! Well! The fellow Jack knows?”
“The very same.”
“Tell me who all are coming to the luncheon day after tomorrow,” begged
Marjorie.
“Well,” began Lily, “first there’s Doris, and Marie Louise Harris,
Roger’s sister, who is to be maid-of-honor, and—”
But the entrance of Mrs. Andrews into the room interrupted the
conversation for a moment, while she greeted Marjorie. The latter, who
was sitting on the davenport beside Lily, still wore her hat and
travelling coat. She rose as the older woman came in.
“Do take off your things and stay a few minutes, Marjorie,” she said,
laughingly. “Or haven’t you time?”
“We haven’t time to stop talking long enough,” explained Marjorie. “We
have so much to say. You see I’m hearing all about the luncheon.”
“Then to continue,” went on Lily, “I expect all the other girls of the
senior patrol. That’s all.”
“Tell me what everybody is doing,” demanded Marjorie, anxious to hear
all the gossip.
“I guess you know about as much as I do,” said Lily. “You know Ethel
Todd’s spring vacation comes the same time as ours, so she’s home; and
so are the three seniors at Miss Allen’s—Daisy, Florence, and Alice. Mae
Van Horn finished her business course and has a position as a
stenographer here in the city, and Doris has been playing the
society-bud all winter. Now would you like me to tell you about Marjorie
Wilkinson?”
“Yes, do!” laughed Marjorie.
“Well, she’s a freshman at Turner College—very popular, of course. Made
all the class teams—hockey, basketball, swimming,—was elected class
treasurer, is a wizard at her studies—”
“Has a most charming room-mate!” interrupted Marjorie, eager to put in
her say.
“What’s all this?” inquired Mr. Andrews, entering the room just in time
to hear the end of the conversation. “Two modest little girls who hate
themselves—”
“Perhaps it did sound rather funny,” admitted Marjorie. “Now I want to
hear all about this wedding you have just been attending.”
There was so much to talk about that the girls were preparing for bed
before Marjorie had even found a chance to tell Daisy’s story. But at
last she related it to Lily’s astonished ears.
“But what in the world can Daisy do with a baby?” demanded the latter.
“She surely can’t expect to take it to Miss Allen’s?”
“Hardly!” replied Marjorie. “She’ll have to pay somebody to take care of
it—and you know she can’t afford to do that! The senior patrol has
simply got to stand behind her.”
Lily yawned wearily; it was rather tiresome of Marjorie and Daisy to
thrust a problem like this into the midst of all their gaiety.
“I suppose so,” she admitted absently, her mind upon the table
decorations for the luncheon she was giving.
“It’ll mean quite a good deal of money, too,” added Marjorie; “for the
mother will probably die; and if she doesn’t she won’t be strong enough
to support her child for a long time.”
“Oh well, if she dies we can put the baby into an orphan asylum,” said
Lily. “They’re really awfully nice places now—not a bit like the dreary,
old-fashioned kind you read about. Father is on the Board of one, and he
says it’s run very decently.”
“But I would hate to put little Betty into one,” objected Marjorie. “And
I’m afraid it would break Daisy’s heart, after she promised the mother,
you know.”
“I suppose we’ll have to see what we can do. Now then, let’s go to
sleep, so we’ll be fresh for tomorrow. But first I want to ask you one
thing: have you seen John Hadley since the vacation started?”
Marjorie felt herself flushing at the mention of that young man’s name,
and was glad that all the lights, except the tiny boudoir lamp between
the twin beds, were extinguished, so that Lily would not notice her
agitation.
“Yes, once. Why?”
“Oh, I just wondered. Because you’re going to see him tomorrow night. He
and Dick Roberts are going to take us to the theatre.”
“How perfectly wonderful!” exclaimed Marjorie. “But I thought that they
were both living in Philadelphia.”
“So they are—and are just coming to New York to see _us_! Now, isn’t
that thrilling?”
“I should say so. Are they coming here for dinner?”
“Yes; they invited us to go to a hotel, but mother put her foot down.
I’m just as glad—we’ll have as good a time here, even if we have mother
and father to chaperone us.”
“Oh, they’re such good sports!” said Marjorie. “They don’t seem like
older people. But say, Lil, it sounds like a lot of gaiety—dinner and
theatre tomorrow, luncheon the day after—”
“A dance at Mae’s the next day,” added Lily, “and finally a bridge party
at the McAlpin, given by a friend of mother’s, in honor of her
daughter.”
“And then we have to go back to college!” sighed Marjorie. “Oh, what a
come down!”
“Still, you know you’ll be glad to get back, and see all the girls—and
our little Girl Scouts in the village.”
“I suppose so,” admitted Marjorie, thinking of the troop of poor
children which she had organized, and over which she and Lily presided.
It had been one of her chief sources of happiness that year to be able
to continue her active membership in the Girl Scouts by this means, and
in some ways she had enjoyed the meetings even more than those of dear
old Pansy Troop.
“Come on—let’s go to sleep now!” said Lily, extinguishing the tiny
light; “we’ll need every bit of rest we can get.”
Mrs. Andrews, too, realized the girls’ need for sleep, and made no
attempt to waken them before they were ready. Indeed, it was almost
eleven o’clock when the maid knocked at the door, and brought in their
breakfast. The girls ate leisurely, taking up the conversation where
they had left off the previous night, and talking as if they had not a
minute to lose.
“Did you think of any way to help Daisy while you were asleep?” asked
Marjorie, laughingly.
“Mercy, no, Marj! The thing never entered my mind. In fact I would have
forgotten all about it, if you had not mentioned it again.”
“You’re cruel, Lil! But then I couldn’t think of anything, either.
Unless we renounce all our pleasures for the coming four days, and hand
the money over to Daisy!”
“Marj, you’re joking?”
“Partly. But just take tonight, for instance: four theatre tickets—that
couldn’t be less than ten dollars—a taxi, maybe flowers! No supper
afterward, because your mother disapproves, but no doubt she is
providing something for us to eat after we get home. I tell you the
money we spend in those few hours might keep Betty two or three weeks!”
“But Marj!” remonstrated Lily, “there will always be orphans and poor
people in the world, and we can’t renounce all our pleasures on their
account. We had better be nuns—”
“Oh, Lil, I’m not scolding you,” put in Marjorie, noticing the girl’s
concern. “Of course I wouldn’t really do that—I only said it was the one
and only thing that had occurred to me.”
“I could give her some of my allowance,” Lily continued; “if that would
help.”
“You’re a perfect dear, Lil!” cried Marjorie, jumping up and putting her
arms around her chum’s neck. “But I don’t think that will be necessary.
I’m sure we’ll think up some plan. I intend to ask John tonight.”
“John Hadley?” repeated Lily, in astonishment. “Why John Hadley? What
could he do?”
“Well, he and his mother helped so much before—in uniting Olive and Kirk
Smith—that I just have a lot of faith in them.”
“All right, go ahead. I’ll see that you two sit next to each other
tonight. Of course that’s the only reason why you would wish to!”
“Naturally,” agreed Marjorie, with a blush.
But it did seem as if it were the thing closest to her heart, for that
evening, as soon as the party was seated at the dinner table, and the
conversation lost its general tone, Marjorie mentioned the matter to
John. He listened intently to her story, regarding it seriously,
secretly flattered that she confided in him, and turned to him for
advice.
“What do Mr. and Mrs. Andrews think of it?” he asked, when she had
finished.
“I don’t believe they have given it much thought,” she replied. “They
just praised Daisy for her kindness, and I think, secretly smiled at her
impetuosity.”
“It is a big job,” remarked John, deliberately. “Especially if the
mother dies. It means support the child until she is able to earn her
own living, and that ought not to be until she receives a fair
education. It comes at a hard time for Daisy, just when she needs a
start herself.”
“Oh, Daisy can’t possibly do it herself! The senior patrol must come to
the rescue. We’ve got to make some money somehow!”
“What chance is there of your getting together?” asked John.
“Very little—we’re awfully scattered. Lily, Florence, and Mae are here
in New York in the summer; Doris will be married and be living in
Philadelphia I guess, since Roger comes from there; and the rest of
us—Alice, Daisy, Ethel and I are all scattered in small towns.”
“What was that you just said?” cried John. “About Doris and Roger being
engaged?” He stopped eating, and looked at Marjorie in amazement.
“Yes, it was in the papers last night,” replied Marjorie. “I’m sure your
mother must have noticed it.”
“Aren’t you talking about the engagement?” interrupted Lily, from the
other side of the table. “I was so afraid you’d forget to tell John!”
“They’ve had weightier matters to discuss,” teased Dick. “I’ve no doubt
they’ve been deciding the fate of the nation. Has your subject been
prohibition, or the League of Nations?”
“Nothing like that,” laughed Marjorie. “Only Girl Scouts. And we haven’t
finished, either!”
“Well, that can wait till later,” said Dick. “We want to hear all the
gossip now.”
At any other time Marjorie would have been only too glad of the chance
to discuss such an interesting topic as the engagement of one of her
dearest friends, but now she was anxious to get down to the other
matter. It was so essential that she have some more or less definite
scheme to lay before the members of the senior patrol on the morrow, for
it was unlikely that she would have another such opportunity to talk to
them all together. She must not disappoint Daisy.
But she found herself unable to return to the subject until they were on
their way to the theatre.
“Can’t you suggest anything?” she asked, abruptly, without even
explaining her question to John.
The young man shook his head sadly.
“No, because the usual money-making schemes like entertainments,
bazaars, dances, food sales, all need people to work them up. And not
enough of you live in the same place.”
“No—but can’t you think of something else?” pleaded Marjorie.
“Well, you wouldn’t want to sell things—peddle from door to door—would
you? Or take orders for magazines, or something like that?”
Marjorie shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not,” she said.
They had reached the theatre now, and both felt any further discussion
would be out of place, in deference to the other two members of the
party. So John made the only offer he could think of under the
circumstances: to put the proposition up to his mother and to ask for
her assistance. Marjorie appeared to be greatly encouraged by the idea.
“But tell her to think fast,” she added; “and I’ll rely upon her!”
Then she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the evening.