Marjorie Dean, High School Sophomore

"I don't like Mary's effect on our little girl, Margaret. Of late, Marjorie is as solemn as a judge," remarked Mr. Dean one evening as he lingered at the dinner table after Mary and Marjorie had excused themselves and gone upstairs on the plea of studying to-morrow's lessons. "I counseled Marjorie, the night I took her to Devon Inn to dinner, to let matters work out in their own way. That was some time ago. Perhaps I'd better take a hand and see what I can do toward ending this internal war. Christmas will soon be here. We can't have our Day of Days spoiled by one youngster's perversity."

"I have thought of that, too," returned Mrs. Dean, smiling, "and I have a plan. I shall need your help to carry it out, though."

When she had finished the laying out of her clever scheme for a congenial Christmas all around, Mr. Dean threw back his head in a hearty laugh. "It's decidedly ingenious, and in keeping," was his tribute. "I'll help you put it through, with pleasure. But after Christmas – " He paused, his laughing eyes growing grave.

"After Christmas our services as peace advocates may not be needed," supplemented Mrs. Dean. "At least, I hope they may not. I am still of the opinion, however, that Mary must be left to repent of her own folly. If she is coaxed and wheedled into good humor she will never realize how badly she has behaved."

"I suppose that is so. But, naturally, I am more interested in healing our poor little soldier's hurts than in trying to bring a certain stubborn young person to her senses. We will try out our idea. It will insure one satisfactory day, I hope. Unless I prove a poor diplomat."

Although Marjorie's blithe voice was too frequently stilled in Mary's presence, she was uniformly sunny when she and her Captain were alone together. Now fairly familiar with Sanford, Mrs. Dean had made it a part of her daily life to seek and assist certain families among the poor of the little northern city. Now that Christmas was so near she was making a special effort to gladden the hearts of those to whom life had seemed to grudge even daily bread. She had contrived wisely to interest Marjorie in this charitable work, with the idea of taking her mind from the bitter disappointment Mary's change of heart had brought her, and had been touched and gratified at the unselfish eagerness with which Marjorie had taken up the work. The latter had aroused Jerry Macy's, as well as Constance Stevens', interest in planning a merry Christmas for the poor of Sanford. Constance was particularly desirous of helping. She would never forget the previous Christmas Eve, when, laden with good will and be-ribboned offerings, Marjorie had smilingly appeared at the little gray house where Poverty reigned supreme and helped her transform Charlie's rickety express wagon into a veritable fairy couch, piled high with the precious tokens of unselfish love. She felt that the only way in which she might show her lasting gratitude for the gifts of that snowy Christmas Eve was to share her blessings with others who were in need, and she quickly became Marjorie's most faithful servitor.

Good-natured Jerry was also keen to bestow her time and world goods in the Christmas cause, and almost every afternoon when school was over the three girls conspired together in the cause of happiness. Marjorie unearthed a trunk of her childish toys from an obscure corner of the garret, and a great mending and refurbishing movement ensued. Jerry, not to be outdone, canvassed among her friends for suitable gifts to lay at the shrine of Christmas, which rose to life eternal when three wise men placed their reverent offerings at the feet of a Holy Child long centuries before. While Constance Stevens drew largely on a sum of money, which her indulgent aunt had placed in the bank to her credit and enjoyed to the full the blessedness of giving.

"Maybe we haven't been busy little helpers, though," declared Jerry Macy one blustering afternoon, as the three girls sat in the Deans' living room, surrounded by ribbon-bound packages of all shapes and sizes. "Truly, I never had such a good time before in all my life."

"That's just the way I feel," nodded Constance, as she tied an astounding bow of red ribazine about an oblong package that suggested a doll, and consulted a fat note book, lying wide spread on the library table, for the address of the prospective possessor. "Marjorie, will you ever forget how happy Charlie was last year?"

"Dear little Charlie!" Marjorie's lips smiled tender reminiscence of the tiny boy's jubilation over his wonderful discovery that Santa Claus had not forgotten him. "His Christmas will be a merry one this year, even to the good, strong leg that he hoped Santa would bring him."

"He can't possibly be any happier than he was last Christmas morning," was Constance's soft reply. "And it was all through you, Marjorie."

"Oh, I wasn't the only one. Your father and you and Uncle John gave him things, and Delia popped the corn for his tree, and, don't you remember, Laurie Armitage brought you the tree and the holly and ground pine?"

Constance flushed slightly at the mention of Lawrence Armitage. A sincere boy and girl friendship had sprung up between them that promised later to ripen into perfect love.

"That reminds me," broke in Jerry bluntly. "I've something to tell you, girls. Hal told me. He's my most reliable source of information when it comes to news of Weston High. Laurie is writing an operetta. He's going to call it 'The Rebellious Princess,' and he would like to give a performance of it in the spring. There's to be a big chorus and Professor Harmon is going to pick a cast from the boys and girls of Weston and Sanford High Schools."

"Who is Professor Harmon?" asked Constance curiously.

"Oh, he's the musical director at Weston High," answered Jerry offhandedly. "He looks after the singing and glee clubs there, just as Miss Walters does at Sanford High. You can sing, Connie, and Laurie knows it. I wouldn't be surprised if you'd get the leading part."

"I'd be more surprised if I did," laughed Constance, "considering that I don't even know Professor Harmon when I see him."

"Laurie will introduce you to him, I guess," predicted Jerry confidently. "Hal said something about a try-out of voices. I can't remember what it was. I'll ask him when I go home."

"I don't believe I could even sing in a chorus," laughed Marjorie. "I haven't a strong voice."

"You can look pretty, though, and that counts," was Jerry's emphatic consolation. "That's more than I can do. I can't see myself shine, even in a chorus. I don't sing. I shout, and then I'm always getting off the key," she ended gloomily.

Constance and Marjorie giggled at Jerry's funny description of her vocal powers. The stout girl's brief gloom vanished in a broad grin.

"Two more days and Christmas will be here!" exclaimed Marjorie with a joyous little skip, which caused a pile of packages on the floor near her to tumble in all directions.

"Easy there!" warned Jerry. Secretly she was delighted at her friend's lightsome mood. Marjorie had been altogether too serious of late. Privately, she had frequently wished that Mary Raymond had never set foot in Sanford.

The early December dusk had fallen when, the last package wrapped, Constance and Jerry said good-bye to Marjorie. "I'll be over bright and early Christmas morning," reminded Constance. "Remember, you are coming to Gray Gables on Christmas night, Marjorie. Charlie made me promise for you ahead of time. I'd love to have you come, too, Jerry."

"Can't do it. Thank you just the same, but the Macys far and near are going to hold forth at our house and poor little Jerry will have to stay at home and do the agreeable hostess act," declared Jerry, looking comically rueful.

"I'll surely be there, Connie. I'll bring my offerings with me. Don't you forget that you are due at the Deans' residence on Christmas morning. Bring Charlie with you."

After her friends had gone, Marjorie went into the living room to speculate for the hundredth time on the subject of Mary's present. It was a beautiful little neckchain of tiny, square, gold links, similar to one her Captain had given her on her last birthday. Mary had frequently admired it in times past and for months Marjorie had saved a portion from her allowance with which to buy it. She had a theory that a gift to one's dearest friends should entail self-sacrifice on the part of the giver. Mary's changed attitude toward her had not counted. She was still resolved upon giving her the chain. But how was she to do it? And suppose when she offered it Mary were to refuse it?

The entrance of her mother broke in upon her unhappy speculations. "I'm glad you came, Captain," she said. "I've been trying to think how I had best give Mary her present."

"Then don't worry about it any longer," comforted Mrs. Dean. Stepping over to the low chair in which Marjorie sat she passed her arm about her troubled daughter and drew her close. "That is a part of my plan. Wait until Christmas morning and you will know."

"Tell me now," coaxed Marjorie, snuggling comfortably into the hollow of the protecting arm.

"That would be strictly against orders," came the laughing response. "Have patience, Lieutenant."

"All right, I will." Sturdily dismissing her curiosity, Marjorie began a detailed account of the afternoon's labor, which lasted until Mr. Dean came rollicking in and engaged Marjorie in a rough-and-tumble romp that left her flushed and laughing.

Despite her many errands of good will and charity, the next two days dragged interminably. On Christmas Eve Mr. Dean took his family and Mary to the theatre to see a play that had had a long, successful run in New York City the previous season and was now doomed to the road. After the play they stopped at Sargent's for a late supper. Under Mr. Dean's genial influence Mary thawed a trifle and even went so far as to address Marjorie several times, to the latter's utter amazement. This was in reality the beginning of Mrs. Dean's carefully laid plan. Marjorie guessed as much and wondered hopefully as to what might happen next.

Nothing special occurred that evening, however, except that Mary bade her a curt "good night." But Marjorie hugged even that short utterance to her heart and went to sleep in a buoyantly hopeful state of mind.

She was awakened the next morning by a military tattoo, rapped on her door by energetic fingers. "Report to the living room for duty," commanded a purposely gruff voice, which she was not slow to recognize.

"Merry Christmas, General," she called. "Lieutenant Dean will report in the living room in about three minutes." Hopping out of bed she reached for her bath robe. Then the sound of tapping fingers again came to her ears. This time they were on Mary's door. Hastily drawing on stockings and bed-room slippers, she sped from her room and down the stairs. Her father stood stiffly at the foot of the stairway in his most general-like manner. She saluted and came to attention. A moment or two of waiting followed, then Mary appeared at the head of the stairs. She began to descend slowly, but Mr. Dean called out, "No lagging in the line," and long obedience to orders served to make her quicken her pace.

"Twos right, march," ordered Mr. Dean, motioning toward the living room.

Wonderingly the company of two obeyed. Then two pairs of eyes were fastened upon a curious object that stood upright in the middle of the living-room table. It was a good-sized flag of pure white.

"Form ranks!" came the order.

Two girlish figures lined up, side by side.

"Salute the Flag of Truce," commanded the wily General.

Mary gave an audible gasp of sheer amazement. Marjorie laughed outright.

"Silence in the ranks," bellowed the stern commandant. "Pay strict attention to what I am about to say. In time of war it sometimes becomes necessary to hoist a flag of truce. This means a suspense of hostilities. The flag of truce is hoisted in this house for all day. It will remain so until twelve o'clock to-night. Respect it. Now break ranks and we'll enjoy our Christmas presents. I hope my army hasn't forgotten its worthy General!"

"Mary," Marjorie's voice trembled. Tears blurred her brown eyes. "It's Christmas morning. Will you kiss me?"

Mary was possessed with a contrary desire to turn and rush upstairs. She felt dimly that to kiss Marjorie was to declare peace against her will. But her better nature whispered to her not to ruin the peace of Yuletide. She would respect the flag of truce for one day. Then she could give Marjorie the ring she had bought for her before coming to Sanford and laid away for Christmas. Afterward she would show her that she had softened merely for the time being. She returned Marjorie's affectionate kiss rather coolly. Nevertheless, the ice was broken.

Five minutes later she found herself running upstairs for her presents for the Deans in an almost happy mood, and she joined in the present giving with a heartiness that was far from forced. Once she had ceased to resist Marjorie's winning advances she was completely drawn into the divine spirit of the occasion, and she allowed herself to drift once more into the dear channel of bygone friendship.

Marjorie fairly bubbled over with exuberant happiness. The unbelievable had come to pass. She and Mary were once more chums. She longed to tell Mary all that was in her heart, but refrained. For to-day it was better to live on the surface of things. Later there would be plenty of time for confidences. After breakfast she mentioned rather timidly that she expected a call from Constance and little Charlie.

Mary received the statement with an apparent docility that brought welcome relief to Marjorie. She was not sure of her chum on this one point. When Constance and Charlie arrived at a little after ten o'clock, burdened with gaily decked bundles, Marjorie's fears were set at rest. To be sure, Mary showed no enthusiasm over Constance, but Charlie was a different matter. She had conceived a strange, deep love for the quaint little boy and spared no pains to entertain him. While she was putting Marjorie's beautiful angora cat, Ruffle, through a series of cunning little tricks, which he performed with sleepy indolence, Marjorie managed to say to Constance, "I can't come to see you to-night, Connie. I'll explain some day soon. You understand."

Constance nodded wisely. Nothing could have induced her to mar the reconciliation which had evidently taken place. "Come when you can," she murmured. Generously leaving herself out of the question, she purposely shortened her stay, although Charlie pleaded to remain.

"I'll come again soon," he assured Mary, as he was being towed off by his sister's determined hand. "I like you almost as well as Connie."

Marjorie's glorious day was over all too soon. She hovered about Mary with a friendly solicitude that could not be denied. The latter graciously allowed her the privilege, but behind her pleasant manner there was a hint of reserve, which did not dawn upon Marjorie until late that evening. At first she reproached herself for even imagining it, but as bedtime approached the conviction grew that when twelve o'clock came Mary would again resume her hostile attitude.

"It is time taps was sounded," reminded Mr. Dean, looking up from his book, as the grandfather's clock in the living room pointed half past eleven. Mrs. Dean sat placidly reading a periodical.

"We'll obey you, General, as soon as we've finished our game." Marjorie looked up from the backgammon board at which she and Mary were seated. It had always been a favorite game with them and Marjorie had proposed playing to relieve the curious sensation of apprehension that was gradually settling down upon her.

It was five minutes to twelve when she put the board away. Mary had strolled to the living-room door. Pausing for an instant she said, as though reciting a lesson, "I've had a lovely day. Thank you all for my presents." Without waiting for replies, she turned and mounted the stairs. The sound of a door, closed with certain decision, floated down to the three in the living room.

Marjorie walked slowly to the table, and drawing the flag of truce from its improvised standard, handed it to her father. "I knew it would end like that, General," she commented sadly. "I felt it coming all evening. Just the same it was a splendid plan, and I thank you for it." She lingered lovingly to kiss her father and mother good night, then marched to her room with a brave face. But as she passed the door that had once more been closed against her she vowed within herself that from this moment forth she would cease to mourn for the "friendship" of a girl who was so heartless as Mary Raymond.

CHAPTER XXI

THE LAST STRAW

It had been Mary Raymond's firm intention when she closed her door that Christmas night to resume hostilities the next day. But when she met Marjorie at breakfast the following morning, her desire for continued warfare had vanished. Some tense chord within her stubborn soul had snapped. Looking back on yesterday she realized that it had not been worth while. Now her proud spirit cried for peace. She wished she had not been so ready to doubt her chum's loyalty and with a curious revulsion of feeling she began to long for a reinstatement into her affections.

But her perfunctory "good night" had cost her more than she dreamed. It had awakened a tardy resentment in Marjorie's hitherto forgiving heart that she could not readily efface. Outwardly Marjorie seemed the same. She returned Mary's greeting pleasantly enough, showing nothing of the surprise it had given her. Mary was not destined to learn for some time to come that a reaction had taken place.

Mr. and Mrs. Dean were relieved to find that Marjorie's prediction was not verified. To all appearances the two girls had definitely resumed their old, friendly footing. Only Marjorie knew differently, but she did not intend then or on any future occasion to betray herself, even to her Captain.

As the winter days glided swiftly along the road to Spring, it was circulated about among Marjorie's intimate friends that she and Mary had settled their differences. Keen-eyed Jerry Macy, however, had seen deeper than her classmates. Although Mary now occasionally walked home with them or accompanied them to Sargent's, spending considerably less time with Mignon, Jerry was quick to feel rather than note the slight reserve Marjorie exhibited toward Mary. "Don't you believe they've made up," she declared to Irma Linton. "Mary may think they have, but they haven't. I guess Marjorie's grown tired of Mary's nonsense. I'm glad of it. She's a silly little goose, I mean Mary, and she's lost more than she thinks."

It was on a sunny afternoon in late March, however, before Mary was rudely jolted into the same conclusion. Mignon La Salle was also possessed of "the seeing eye." Mary was no longer her devoted satellite, although she still kept up an indifferent kind of friendship with the French girl. Mignon soon divined the cause of her lagging allegiance. "You are a little idiot, Mary Raymond, to follow Marjorie Dean about as you do. She doesn't care a snap for you. She may treat you nicely, but that's as far as it goes. She cares more for that miserable Stevens girl in a minute than she cares for you in a whole year. Why can't you let her alone and chum with some one who appreciates you."

"I don't follow Marjorie about," contested Mary hotly. "I never go anywhere with her unless she asks me."

"She merely does that through courtesy," shrugged Mignon. "I suppose she thinks it her duty. She's a prig and I despise her."

Mary's face flamed at the obnoxious word "duty." In a flash her mind reviewed all that had passed since that memorable Christmas day. Her cheeks grew hotter at the brutal truth of Mignon's words.

"If you think I care anything about her, you have made a mistake," she retorted, stung to untruthfulness by the taunt. "I'll soon prove to you that I don't."

"Stop running around with her and her wonderful friends and I'll believe you," sneered Mignon.

"I will, if only to show you that I don't care," flung back the angry girl.

"That's the way to talk," approved Mignon. She had kept but few friends among the sophomores since that fatal practice game and she did not intend to lose Mary from her diminished circle. Besides, she was certain that the Deans, one and all, did not approve of Mary's friendship with her and it accorded her supreme pleasure to annoy them.

"I'm going to give a fancy dress party two weeks from Friday night," she went on, with an abrupt change of subject. "Nearly all the girls I'm intending to invite are juniors and seniors. We'll have a glorious time. I don't have to strip our living room of furniture for a place to dance. I have a real ballroom in my home. I'll send you an invitation in a day or two."

Surely enough, three days after Mignon's announcement the invitation was duly delivered to Mary through the mail. She read it listlessly. She was not keen about attending the party. Marjorie merely smiled when Mary showed her the invitation and briefly announced her intention of going. She graciously offered the Snow White costume she had worn at the masquerade of the previous Spring. Mary declined it coldly. She had not forgotten Mignon's taunts. Since then she had kept strictly to herself, steadily refusing Marjorie's polite invitations to accompany her here and there. Earlier in the year Marjorie would have grieved in secret over this frostiness, but Marjorie had hardened her gentle heart and now fancied that Mary's movements were of small concern to her. And so the wall of misunderstanding towered higher and higher.

Mrs. Dean willingly helped Mary plan a cunning little girl costume, and when on the night of the party she entered the living room in obedience to her Captain's call, "Come here and let us see how you look, Mary," a lump rose in Marjorie's throat. In her short, white, embroidered frock, with its Dutch neck and wide, blue ribbon sash, she looked precisely like the pretty child that she had been when she and Marjorie played "house" together in the Raymonds' backyard. The blue silk stockings and heelless, blue kid slippers emphasized the babyish effect of her costume, and Marjorie had hard work to keep back her tears. But Mary could not read that sudden rush of emotion in the calm, uncritical face which Marjorie turned to her.

Mignon had sent her runabout for Mary and it was a trifle after eight o'clock when the La Salle's chauffeur drove up the wide, handsome driveway to Mignon's home. It was an unusually mild evening in April and as they neared the port-cochere, a slim figure in gypsy dress ran down the steps. "I've been watching for you," called Mignon, as Mary stepped from the runabout. "The musicians are here and so are most of the girls. I can't imagine why the boys don't come. Only six have appeared, so far. We've had one dance," she went on crossly. "Some of the girls had to dance together. Wasn't that horrid? Take off your cloak and let me see your costume. It's sweet."

The chauffeur had disappeared and the two girls stood for an instant at the foot of the steps.

Advancing suddenly out of the darkness marched a sturdy little figure. Under its arm was thrust a diminutive violin case. "How do you do?" it greeted with a quaint, bobbing bow. "I comed to play in the band."

With a quick exclamation of surprise, Mary Raymond darted toward the tiny youngster. "Charlie Stevens!" she gasped. "What are you doing away over here after dark?"

"I comed to play in the band," repeated Charlie with a jubilant wave of his violin case that almost sent it hurtling from his baby fingers. "Uncle John comed and so I comed, too."

Mary knelt on the driveway and gathered him into her round, young arms. "Listen to Mary, dear little boy. Did Charlie run away?" She had heard from Marjorie of Charlie's frequent attempts to sally forth to conquer the world with his violin.

The child's sensitive face clouded. His lip quivered. "Connie says I have to always tell the truth," he wailed. "I runned away because I have to play in the big band. A man comed to see Uncle John this afternoon. I heard him talk about the band. Uncle John comed to play in it, so I comed, too. Only he didn't see me. I kept behind him till he got to the gate. Then after a while I comed, too!"

Mignon La Salle stood watching the wailing aspirant for the "big band" with frowning eyes. "I suppose this ridiculous child belongs to those Stevens," she sneered.