THE VISIT TO PHILADELPHIA
The remaining days of Marjorie’s visit sped by with rapidity, packed as
they were with engagements and good times. Almost before they realized
it, she and Lily were back at college again, following the old routine.
But now Marjorie felt that the time could not pass too quickly. There
were only six weeks left before the close of college, but those six
weeks made her impatient to begin work on her new project. If only their
plans would materialize!
As she had announced at the luncheon, Marjorie had written immediately
to Mrs. Hadley, soliciting her help and advice. The older woman’s reply
had been most cordial; she had not only promised to look about for a
suitable site for the tea-house, but she had extended a week-end
invitation to Marjorie to visit her home, so that they might go over the
ground together. The prospect seemed delightful.
“What date did Mrs. Hadley set?” asked Lily, one afternoon shortly after
their return from the holiday.
“The third Saturday in April,” replied Marjorie. “A week from tomorrow.”
Lily referred to the letter she had just finished reading.
“You’re doubly lucky,” she said. “Doris will be in Philadelphia all that
week, visiting Mrs. Harris and buying furniture. I have a letter from
her here now, telling me that Roger has succeeded in getting a house.”
“That’s great!” cried Marjorie. “But do you suppose she’ll have any time
to see me?”
“Surely! Wait till I write to her—I’ll mention the fact that you are
coming.”
“Maybe John will drive me out. You know he has a Ford now.”
“That’s nice,” commented Lily, thinking how much fun she derived from
her Rolls-Royce, and making a valiant effort to remember that both were
cars. “I see you’re in for a good time this summer.”
“Of course I’m in for a good time,” acknowledged Marjorie. “Isn’t it
always a good time where Girl Scouts are included—especially the Girl
Scouts of Pansy Troop’s old senior patrol?”
“Right you are! Still, motors never detract. I believe I’ll take mine
down if we do live in Marie Louise’s house.”
“Oh, we’ll live there—I’m sure she meant it, or she wouldn’t have
offered. I wish I could see it while I’m in Philadelphia.”
“You probably will,” sighed Lily, enviously.
She did not enjoy the prospect of a week-end alone at college while
Marjorie was having a good time in the city. Nevertheless it was she who
kept her promise to tell Doris of the intended visit, and as a result
Marjorie and the Hadleys were invited to dinner at the Harris’s on the
Saturday evening of the former’s stay in Philadelphia.
It was a mild spring day, and they found the little party assembled on
the porch as John drove up. Marjorie opened the door of the car and
jumped out eagerly.
The house was a modern three-story stone one, standing alone, and
surrounded by just enough ground to separate it pleasantly from its
neighbors. The porch, which was furnished already with wicker chairs and
grass rugs, appeared most inviting.
“Oh, this is lovely!” cried Marjorie, as she greeted the girls, and was
introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Harris.
In a few minutes they all went inside, and Marjorie continued to admire
everything in a most informal manner.
“But I shouldn’t think your father and mother would care to turn it over
to a mob of school-girls for the summer,” she remarked.
“Well, we’re not exactly babies,” laughed Marie Louise. “And they said
they’d be delighted—it’s so much nicer than closing it up entirely.”
“Much nicer for us, of course,” agreed Marjorie.
“Would you like to see the rest of it?” suggested her hostess, politely.
“Love to!”
They went from room to room, each one of which bore the stamp of
newness, the testimony of careful usage. The white paint glistened
beneath the gleam of the electric lights, the curtains and draperies
appeared to have been put up fresh that morning, the furniture to have
recently arrived from the store. Everything was simple, immaculate, and
in perfect taste; Marjorie could not imagine a more delightful house for
a group of girls to live in.
“But how could we ever keep it in such spotless order?” she asked, after
she had expressed her appreciation of its beauty. “Things will get out
of place—”
“Oh, we would keep Mrs. Munsen—our housekeeper,” explained Marie Louise.
“I wouldn’t think of attempting it without her. Besides, she’s a very
superior woman, and could act as a sort of chaperone, you know.”
“Yes; otherwise you couldn’t have the boys come to see you,” put in
Doris, who had accompanied them upon their tour of inspection.
“Don’t judge everybody by yourself, Doris,” teased Marjorie. “I don’t
expect any callers—I mean to give up all my time to the tea-house.”
“If we get one!” Marie Louise reminded her.
“Well, here’s hoping!” returned the other.
The conversation at dinner hinged upon the two topics of supreme
importance to the little group at that time—the wedding, and the
operation of the tea-house. Sometimes it was one, sometimes the other;
once in a while Mr. and Mrs. Harris, or Mrs. Hadley would introduce a
subject of general interest, only to find that it was immediately
dropped by the young people for their more personal affairs. At last
they abandoned their attempts in amusement, to follow the course of
least resistance.
Mr. Harris suggested a fire in the fire-place after dinner, as the night
was rather chilly, and while John helped him to make it, the two older
women and Marjorie and Marie Louise started to play bridge. Off in a
shadowy corner of the room sat the lovers, whispering intimately
together over the plans for their new home.
In spite of her interest in the game, however, Marjorie found it
impossible to keep from talking. Every few minutes she felt that she
simply had to make a remark or to ask a question relative to the project
that was uppermost in her mind.
“You’re going with us tomorrow, aren’t you?” she asked Marie Louise, in
an interval between hands.
“Going where?” inquired the other, as she shuffled the cards.
“On our search for the tea-house, of course, John is going to drive us
up around the Wissahickon, and along the outskirts of the Park, to look
for some picturesque barn or old mill.”
“I’d be delighted!” cried Marie Louise, joyfully. She was as much
interested in the undertaking as if she had been an original member of
the famous patrol.
“Aren’t you going to invite Doris?” remarked John, in a bantering tone;
for he knew, as did everyone else in the room, how slight was the
probability that she would accept.
“Why certainly!” replied Marjorie, with a sly twinkle in her eye. “Too
bad there isn’t room for Roger!”
“Here!” protested Roger. “I’m not going to stand for that. I—”
“Well, we’ll excuse you this time,” laughed Marjorie.
“Tell us about your house, old man,” suggested John; “before you get
absorbed again.”
“Nothing much to tell,” replied Roger. “Just an ordinary two-story
bungalow type, about as big as a pumpkin-shell. ‘He put her in a
pumpkin-shell, and there he kept her very well!’ But wait till it’s all
furnished.”
“And how are you getting along?” inquired Mrs. Hadley.
“Beautifully!” answered Doris, her eyes shining with anticipation.
“We’re going to have it all fixed and ready for ourselves when we come
home.”
“Doesn’t it sound too funny to hear Doris talking about ‘coming home’—to
her own home!” laughed Marjorie. “And such a short time ago we were
getting ready for that dance where she and Roger met each other. In
fact, I feel responsible for this match. It was really all my doing—”
“Jack wouldn’t agree to that!” interrupted John. “He always claims the
credit for himself.”
“They’re both wrong!” put in Marie Louise. “For I met Doris at a tea,
and would have invited her home with me, for Roger’s sake as well as my
own, if she had never met him any other way!”
“I suppose I had nothing at all to do with it,” remarked Roger, meekly;
but a timid glance from Doris assured him that he was the only one who
mattered.
In spite of the enjoyable evening they were having, the guests departed
early; for Marjorie insisted that they would have a strenuous day of
house-hunting before them on the morrow. She warned Marie Louise to be
ready by ten o’clock in the morning.
The following day, however, Marjorie was up at dawn, and in her
impatience to begin, she telephoned Marie Louise at eight o’clock. A
surprised and sleepy voice answered her at the other end of the wire,
and it became rather indignant when Marjorie begged its owner to be
ready an hour earlier.
“Nine o’clock! I can never be ready by then. Why, I’m still in bed!”
“Oh, come on!” coaxed Marjorie. And in the end she had her way.
John, much amused by Marjorie’s superabundance of energy, and under the
spell of her enthusiasm, was perfectly willing to forego his customary
Sunday-morning sleep.
Promptly at nine o’clock they drove up to the Harris’s door and found
Marie Louise finishing a hasty breakfast. Now that she was thoroughly
awake, she too was anxious to start, and climbed into the car talking
volubly.
It was but a few minutes’ ride from the Harris’s to the park, which they
entered upon a highway extending along one of the smaller streams that
joined the Wissahickon. Marjorie, who had read and heard much about the
natural beauty of the famous stream, was entranced as she beheld it. She
clapped her hands in delight, and kept exclaiming and pointing out
objects of beauty and interest.
“But the houses—where are the houses?” she asked.
John explained to her that they were in park territory, and that there
were no houses, except a few notable ones, and the tiny shelters used by
the park guards.
“The places you read about are mostly farther up the stream, where
automobiles are not allowed. Only pedestrians, or riders and drivers of
horses, are permitted.”
The look of dejection in poor Marjorie’s face was pitiful to see. John
realized that she had set her heart on the Wissahickon for a location;
the knowledge had given him considerable concern; and while he had been
aware all the time of the impossibility of such a thing, he had not the
courage to disillusion her, preferring rather that she should see for
herself.
They went along the river-drive, Marjorie silent and apparently lost in
thought. It was John’s purpose to allow her to collect herself before
suggesting a plan he had in mind. Without seeming to turn back, he
followed the winding roads which eventually brought them back in the
direction from which they had come. Marjorie recognized the landmarks,
and coming out of her reverie, looked inquiringly up at him.
“Yes, we are going back again,” he said, understanding her look, “I’m
afraid there isn’t much that would interest us in this neighborhood. You
can see for yourself the impossibility of locating around here. Some day
we will come without the car, and walk up the creek to see some of the
places you had in mind. But really, Marj, they are nothing more than
ruins that you couldn’t possibly use; and the few that are habitable are
at present occupied and utterly impracticable for a tea-house.”
As John paused for breath he saw the tears gather in the girl’s eyes.
“Please don’t be discouraged!” he exclaimed, hastily, taking one hand
from the wheel for an instant, and pressing hers reassuringly. “I have a
plan in mind: but I want you to see for yourself.”
“T thought it would be so lovely to be on the Wissahickon!” insisted the
disappointed girl.
“So it would,” agreed John; “but perhaps not so profitable. Don’t you
see, you must be on a much travelled road, one used by automobilists, to
make the thing go. Most of the walkers and horsemen are out for
exercise; they go home for their luncheon or their tea. And then, yours
is a summer project; if you were to choose an obscure location, no
matter how lovely, it would take time before your place became known. I
may seem awfully practical about it all, but the fact remains—it’s the
hungry people you must catch.”
“I guess you’re right,” laughed Marjorie. “But it seems utterly hopeless
to me now, for the first time. What do you suggest?”
“Valley Green,” replied John. “Let’s go there and stay for lunch.”
They left the park and approached the vicinity of the famous road-house
by a roundabout way. John drew the car up to the roadside as they
reached the park boundary again; and they proceeded on foot along the
narrow path by the creek side until they reached the bridge above Valley
Green, where they crossed over.
“I never saw a more delightful place!” exclaimed Marjorie, when she
caught a glimpse of the lovely old house among the trees by the
roadside. “Can we have lunch on that nice shady porch? And look at the
ducks! And swans, too! Aren’t they beautiful?”
John saw that they were all comfortably seated, and then went inside to
arrange for luncheon. In several minutes he returned, laughing.
“I guess they think we’re crazy for wanting to have the lunch out on the
porch—just as if it were really summer.”
“Oh!” cried Marjorie, suddenly becoming considerate, and turning to Mrs.
Hadley, “I never thought to ask you whether you objected. If it’s too
cool—”
“No, I think it will be very comfortable,” smiled the other. “Don’t
think of changing for me.”
“Then we can watch the swans, and hear the water bubbling against the
rocks, and hear the birds—haven’t you noticed them?—and just have a
jolly time all around.”
John beamed to see Marjorie happy again; it was so unusual to see her
otherwise that her former depression had been the more noticeable.
Before long a waitress appeared and commenced laying a cloth upon one of
the round tables. She was young, rosy-cheeked, and wore a freshly
starched apron and a dainty white cap.
Marjorie took in all these details with thoughtful eyes. Never before,
she realized, had she noticed just how a waitress should act.
“Before long,” she thought, “I’ll be doing the same thing. I wonder how
it will feel?” And she laughed aloud, drawing the attention of the
others suddenly to herself.
“I was just thinking, Marie Louise, that before long we’ll be serving
luncheon to perfect strangers ourselves.”
“That’s funny!” chuckled John. “I was just thinking that myself. I was
trying to picture you, Marjorie, with one of those little white affairs
on your head, and an apron around your waist.”
“Well, sir? And how shall I look?” asked the girl.
“Oh—very nice!” stammered John, blushing furiously, and glancing slyly
in embarrassment at his mother and Marie Louise, as they all laughed at
his confusion.
“Let’s go sit at the table,” suggested Marjorie, somewhat confused
herself. “I want to see just how it’s done.”
As they left their seat beneath the trees, and took places at the table,
the maid reappeared with a tray.
“I never thought to consult you ladies about what to order,” John
apologized; “so I hope you’ll find these things to your liking.”
“This toast is delicious,” announced Marjorie.
“And the chicken-salad looks most inviting. Oh, it is a weakness of
mine!” commented Marie Louise.
“Gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Hadley, as the waitress appeared again
bearing a fluffy omelette and a plate of hot rolls. “The boy must think
we are ravenous!”
“I wanted to please everyone, and I thought if I ordered two or three
things, I might hit upon something you all liked. It’s been a long time
since we had breakfast, you know—”
“All except Marie Louise!” put in Marjorie.
“Early for me, however!” answered the accused. “And I _am_ ravenous!”
“Then you’ve done very well!” said Marjorie, turning her gaze upon John,
who sat next to her, and who smiled happily at her.
“If you two will just stop flirting for a minute, and attend to your
lunch,” remarked Marie Louise, “I think you will find this omelette
delicious!”
“My dear!” exclaimed Marjorie, indignantly; and then she laughed.
John said nothing; he only blushed again. But he had a happy, satisfied
feeling inside somewhere—happy because Marjorie was vivacious again;
satisfied because, ever since he had discouraged her so in the morning,
he had felt like a brute; and he could now see in her eyes that she bore
no resentment.
“We’ve been making so much noise with our laughing we have scared all
the birds away!” said Marjorie. “How quiet and peaceful it is!”
They sat in silence while the dishes were being removed, and watched the
swans gliding majestically about and curving gracefully their slender
necks as they dipped their bills into the water. Afar off down the road
they could hear the hoof-beats of an approaching horse. A moment later a
young girl rode by.
“Makes me think of last summer when we were on the ranch,” remarked John
to Marjorie.
The waitress was placing their dessert before them.
“How wonderful!” cried Marie Louise. “Fresh strawberries and cream! It’s
just the right dessert for this luncheon, and this place. Indeed, you
have chosen well, John.”
“And it’s all right for _me_ to say that,” she added, in an aside to
Marjorie.
“Have you noticed the china?” asked that person. “That is one of the
things we will have to give some thought to.”
“Then you still hope to find a place?” said Marie Louise.
“Oh, yes. John has a plan in mind. He’ll tell us when he is ready, I
guess.”
“It’s no secret,” said John. “I have in mind a place on the Lincoln
Highway just above the park. In my estimation it’s ideally situated; for
all automobilists entering the park from that locality have to use that
road. It belongs to a friend of mine, Edward Scott, who is in Europe. We
grew up together—went to the same schools when we were kids; and while I
was at prep school, they moved from our neighborhood because his father
built the house I spoke of. Of course we didn’t see much of each other
while I was away at school—Ned went to a prep here in this city and
entered the University of Pennsylvania when I entered Princeton. I
wanted him to go with me, but his father had his mind set on Penn,
because he had gone there. Even while we were apart all that time, we
kept in close touch—wrote to each other at least once a week—and still
do, though he is in England.
“Well, to make a long story short, towards the end of his freshman year,
Ned’s father died; and about two weeks after that, his mother followed
him. The blow was almost too much for poor Ned. He went back to college,
however, and his maiden-aunt came to live with him. She was only there a
little over a month, and she too died. He couldn’t stand that house any
longer; so he packed up, stored all the furniture, closed the house, and
went to Europe for the summer. In the fall he entered Oxford. The last
time he wrote he said he liked it so well he didn’t know when he would
come back. Not until he completes his course, at any rate; and after
that he hopes to travel for a while. Luckily, his father left him piles
of money. He has nothing to come home for; he’s the last of his family.”
“How tragic!” exclaimed Marjorie. “Poor fellow!”
“I’m surprised that he hasn’t sold or rented the house,” said Marie
Louise.
“He did mention it, but decided he’d hold it for awhile, in case he
should suddenly want to come back again, and also because it’s a
valuable property, and it would pay to hold it.
“Now, since the place is there and no one is using it, I’m sure Ned will
let us have it. I’ve already written to him, and he is to cable his
reply, ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ and the amount of the rent. There is nothing to do
but to wait for his answer.”
“I thought you had something up your sleeve, John Hadley,” cried
Marjorie. “Oh, it’s too wonderful! When should you hear?”
“In a day or so.”
“Can we see it?”
“From the outside.”
Upon learning this, Marjorie was anxious to be off again. Refreshed
bodily by the substantial lunch they had eaten, and in spirits by the
good news of John’s plan, they went back to the machine, and after
riding about ten minutes, a short distance above the park John turned in
at an open driveway between two hedges.
“Here we are!”
The two girls uttered little cries of delight.
“Why, this is ever so much more lovely than I had expected!” said
Marjorie.
“Yes, it’s perfect!” agreed Marie Louise.
A stone house with white woodwork and green shutters stood before them.
It was not a very large house, yet it appeared roomy. Like the ground
which it occupied, it was wide, rather than deep, so that the greater
part faced the road. The hospitable double doors and spreading fan-light
above them gave promise of a wide hallway within. Extending across the
entire front and along each side ran a broad covered porch, an ideal
place for serving tea in hot weather; and the windows, which were
boarded up, reached the floor. A short distance in the rear stood a
combination stable and garage.
Marjorie took in the details with sparkling eyes, noticing how admirably
situated it was for their purpose. The curving gravel driveway with a
double entrance would permit motors to enter and leave without turning
around; the house was close enough to the highway to be in evidence, but
not too close for privacy. The vines and shrubs growing about the porch,
which before very long would be in leaf again, would give just the
proper amount of obscurity. Large shade trees were numerous at each side
and to the rear; but the front, from the drives to the road, was an
expanse of lawn, unbroken save by a few shrubs and flower beds. On the
right a continuation of the drive ran back to the garage; on the left, a
rose arbor led down to a rustic summer-house in the middle of the lawn.
In summer, when the foliage became profuse, it would be impossible for
anyone seated on the porch to see the neighboring houses on either side;
and the view across the highway was of the gardens of a large private
estate.
Marjorie turned to John and said, with a laugh:
“And to think that the most I expected was some old barn! This is
heavenly; so nice, in fact, that I can’t believe we shall ever get it.”
They sat in the machine and discussed their plans until a chilliness in
the air warned them that it was getting late, and time for them to be
starting homeward.