Kitabı oku: «Marjorie Dean at Hamilton Arms», sayfa 5
CHAPTER IX
DEFEATING HER OWN HAPPINESS
When the door had closed on her gossiping caller Doris sat down again at the table. She leaned her beautiful head on her white, dimpled arms and gave herself up to brief disconsolate reverie. Now that she was alone she wondered whether what Julia Peyton had said about Muriel Harding was strictly true. There was one way in which she could find out with certainty. She would ask Muriel point-blank if it were true that four off-campus girls had refused her invitation. She would ask Muriel, also, where she had gained so much information regarding herself. When she endeavored to recall Julia’s exact words she found they did not mean much. Julia’s reluctant inflections, her stammering pauses, had implied so much more than words.
Julia’s object in warning Doris against Muriel had been double. Since the evening when she had made complaint against the noise in Room 15 she had shown marked hostility to the knot of post graduates at Wayland Hall. She and Clara Carter had encouraged Doris in her half fancied dislike for them. She had noted the new spirit of friendliness growing between Doris and Muriel with every intention of crushing it if she could. She kept up a zealous watching and longing for an opportunity to create dissention between them. She had a habit of dropping in on Doris in her room when Muriel was there purposely to see how things were between the two. She never spoke to Muriel, however.
About the time she had begun to despair of making mischief between them she was delighted to overhear a group of chattering freshmen in the gymnasium one afternoon gaily discussing their Christmas plans. What most pleased her were the remarks of one of them: “Isn’t it too bad? Miss Harding can’t find a single dorm to trot home with her. They are all attached. It’s too bad for her. I mean. Of course it’s lovely for the dorms.”
The jealous, prejudiced girl had chosen to place an entirely different construction upon the remarks from that intended by the merry little freshman. By the time she had repeated the remarks to Clara Carter, her roommate, with embellishments, they had assumed an ugly tone. Clara also contributed a few opinions which did not improve matters.
Added to this it needed but the rumor that Doris Monroe was going home with Miss Harding for the holidays to set the mischief-making pair of sophomores to work. Julia was of the opinion that since Doris had planned to go home with Muriel she and Miss Cairns must have quarreled. If she could only set Doris against her roommate then Doris would go home for the vacation with her. She would have the pleasure of boasting that she had entertained the college beauty. She was confident that she would gain socially by having entertained Doris as her guest. With so much to be gained to her interest Julia had picked her hour and boldly braved the “Busy” sign and Doris’s “royal” manner. At the last she had not dared propose to Doris that her wrathful classmate should spend the vacation with her. She returned to her room to inform Clara, who was watching for her, that she had just missed getting into an awful mess.
With a pettish little jerk of her head Doris straightened in her chair. She picked up the letter she had been writing from the table and began reading it over. Then she sat staring reflectively at it, as though deliberating some very special course. Next instant and she had torn the unfinished letter in pieces. With the peculiar cresting of her golden head, always a sign of defiance, she reached for her fountain pen where it had rolled to one end of the table.
“Dear Leslie:” she wrote, her green eyes darkening with her unquiet thoughts. “If you really meant what you said when I left you the other day at the Colonial, then I will take you at your word. Miss Harding, my roommate, has invited me to go home with her. I prefer to go to New York with you, provided you will not feel that I am an incumbrance to your plans. Let me know immediately what you wish to do.
“Sincerely,“Doris Monroe.”
She read the brief note, folded it and prepared it for mailing. Then she tucked the envelope in her portfolio, but without a stamp. She glanced up at the clock. It was nearing six. Muriel would soon arrive. Of late she and Muriel had exchanged the cheerful, careless greetings of girlhood when they met in their room or on the campus. She had lately begun to find a roommate might be a congenial comfort instead of a tiresome inconvenience. Now it was all spoiled. Muriel had pretended pity for her to other students. Of all things detested, Doris most disliked being pitied.
In spite of her anger against Muriel, Doris could do no less than admit to herself that Julia Peyton’s word was not to be taken above Muriel’s. Yet she was sullenly convinced that Muriel must have said something pitying about her to someone. How else could Julia have heard it? A bright flush dyed her face as she thought of herself as being a last-resort guest. Perhaps Muriel had been asked by Miss Dean to invite her, merely as a welfare experiment. She had heard that Miss Dean was fond of making such experiments. It was outrageous that she should have been selected as the victim of one. Other far-fetched, flashing conjectures visited her troubled brain as she waited for Muriel’s coming. She could not decide whether to treat Muriel with friendliness, asking her frankly for an explanation, or to resort once again to her old-time haughty indifference.
Muriel’s sudden breezy entrance and accompanying cry: “Where, oh, where, are the lickerish lights?” took Doris’s mind off herself for a moment. Muriel had already pressed the switch near the door. She made such an attractive study in her gray squirrel coat and cap, cheeks carnation pink, dark eyes snapping with sheer love of life Doris had no desire to be haughty.
“I forgot the lights,” she said with a little shrug. She continued to watch Muriel who was removing coat and cap. “I should like to ask you something,” she said as Muriel hung up her wraps and commenced smoothing her ruffled hair before a mirror.
“Ask ahead.” Muriel waved affable permission with her hair brush.
“Is there – are there – am I the only guest you have invited for Christmas?” Unconsciously Doris’s voice had taken on a shade of its former icy quality.
“You’re the only one who’s coming,” laughed Muriel. “You’re by no means the only one I invited.”
“Oh!” Doris gave a queer little gasp.
“Did you hear about my dormitory girls? I invited them, and they accepted. Then they had unexpected checks sent them from home and away they went. I wandered around looking for some checkless, invitationless dorms. There were no such stoojents.” Muriel declared good-humoredly. “I supposed of course you were dated ahead for the holidays. Then I asked you, and found you weren’t. I was so glad. I’d have felt sorry to think of you poking around the campus over Christmas alone. You’re so far from home, you see. Marjorie said the same and – ”
“I don’t wish anyone to be sorry for me.” Doris’s almost fierce utterance checked Muriel’s flow of cheery volubility.
“All right. I’m not sorry a bit. You only dreamed I was,” she retorted in a tone of gay raillery.
“I’m not jesting. I am serious.” Doris drew herself up, a slim figure of affronted dignity. All that Julia had said of Muriel was true. Only one question, and Muriel had then practically admitted saying almost the exact words Julia had quoted as hers.
“Oh-h-h?” Muriel voiced the monosyllable questioningly. Her bright expression faded into concern. “Serious about what?” she asked.
“About not wishing you or Miss Dean or any of your friends to be sorry for me. I have plenty of friends – delightful friends. Why, I’ve refused half a dozen Christmas invitations! I have changed my mind about going home with you. I’m not going. I shall go to New York instead. I might have liked you, if you hadn’t tried to pity me behind my back. That was worse than to my face. Please tell Miss Dean to mind her own affairs. I am not a welfare experiment.”
Doris delivered the long answer to Muriel’s question in a voice that grew more scornful with each word. She busied herself as she sputtered forth her displeasure with the donning of hat and coat. With “experiment” she snatched the letter she had written to Leslie Cairns from the portfolio, hastily affixed a stamp to the envelope and rushed from the room. Muriel watched her go, divided between vexation and perplexity. What under the sun had happened to the Ice Queen?
CHAPTER X
THE COMING OF ST. NICK
“You know, if you are good, Santa Claus will surely visit you on Christmas eve,” Marjorie was gravely saying to the bright-faced, alert little old lady ensconced in a big cushiony chair before the cheerful open fireplace. Marjorie emphasized her injunction with gentle little shakes of a forefinger.
“How good do I have to be? Will Santa Claus come down the chimney?” anxiously questioned Miss Susanna in a high treble that evoked a burst of merriment from the rest of the little group gathered about the fire. “Miss Susanna’s bodyguard,” Vera had lightly named Leila, Robin, Marjorie and herself.
“How good do you think you can be?” Marjorie paused to allow her question to take effect.
“That will depend upon the reward of goodness,” chuckled the old lady.
“You are altogether too precautious.” Marjorie simulated disapproval. “But you can’t fool Santa. He will know the minute he sees you just what sort of little girl you are.”
Miss Susanna peeped through her fingers at Marjorie in a funny, abashed, child-like fashion that elicited fresh laughter. “You can’t fool me, either. He never could come down the chimney and out of that fireplace. I’m going to tell him what you said, when I see him. Then maybe he won’t like you,” she predicted in juvenile triumph.
“Oh, I didn’t say he’d come down our chimney,” reprovingly corrected Marjorie. “I only said he might visit you. He always used to come in at that window over there.” She pointed to one of the living room east windows which opened upon a side veranda.
Miss Susanna appeared impressed at last. “Yes; he could get in here that way. I guess I’d better be good.” A little shout greeted her reluctant admission. “Such a day as I’ve had, children.” She gave a sigh of perfect happiness. “I’m certainly beginning to make up for some of the customs and rites of old Christmas I have missed.”
The jolly Christmas company from Hamilton College had arrived in Sanford in the evening of the previous day. They had separated briefly at the station to go to their various destinations blithely promising Marjorie to be on hand by ten o’clock the next morning to go to a neighboring woods on a winter picnic. The express object of the picnic was the securing and bringing home of the Christmas tree to Castle Dean.
The hard labor part of the expedition had fallen to General Dean. He had complained of the detail in a loud, ungeneral-like manner as a “one-man, wood-chopping stunt,” and had immediately engaged the services of Hal Macy, Charlie Stevens and Danny Seabrooke. The wages they demanded were: “Lots of good eats, and a chance to hang around with the crowd.” The wily general affably agreed to their demand without consulting either the commissary or entertainment departments.
It had proved a memorably merry day. The fun began when the rollicking, cheering forest expedition had piled onto the two long bob sleds, each drawn by four big, satin-coated field horses. It had continued until the young foresters had come singing home through the dusk, the sleds laden with fragrant balsam trees and boughs.
Bred to thrive in the great outdoors the sturdy mistress of Hamilton Arms had enjoyed the winter picnic no less than her youthful companions. While there had been sufficient snow to permit the use of the bob sleds, it was of the frost-like crystallized kind. The sun had peered curiously forth from his winter quarters, had apparently approved the gay winter cavalcade. He had flashed in and out of fleecy clouds at them on their way to the woods. Later, when they had hilariously disposed themselves on the bob sleds for an al fresco luncheon he had come out in all his glory to shine on them.
What most amused the girls was the crush which Miss Susanna and Hal immediately developed for each other. Miss Hamilton and Hal had met at the June Commencement of Hamilton College of the previous summer. Devotion to Marjorie had formed an instant, though unspoken bond between them. Hal had somehow gained the comforting impression that Miss Susanna approved of him for Marjorie. The shrewd old lady had not miscalculated his worth. She had been too wise, however even to mention him to Marjorie. Nor had Marjorie ever mentioned Hal to her save as an old friend, or as Jerry’s brother.
The wise old Lady of the Arms had seen too much of heartache, misunderstanding and vain regret not to appreciate the wonder of the love which Hal held for Marjorie. Miss Susanna had had her own romance. It had ended summarily in her girlhood when she found the man she had loved unworthy. In true love itself she still believed, though she skeptically rated it as so rare as to be almost extinct. Then had come Hal, with his clean-cut good looks and wistful blue eyes. She could only receive him into her interested regard with the hope Marjorie might one day “wake up to love.”
Friends of Marjorie Dean knew the quartette of stories relative to her doings at Sanford High School. They form the “Marjorie Dean High School Series.” These friends have also followed her through her four years at Hamilton College by medium of the “Marjorie Dean College Series.” Her subsequent return to Hamilton campus as a post graduate has been set down in the first two volumes of the “Post Graduate Series,” entitled respectively: “Marjorie Dean, College Post Graduate,” and “Marjorie Dean, Marvelous Manager.”
“It has been a good day; now let it be – good night,” declaimed Leila with a dramatic gesture.
“Good night,” Vera sweetly responded. “So sorry you are going.” She smiled honeyed dismissal of Leila.
“But I am not going. Now why should you think I was? I see little sadness in your round face, Midget,” was the satiric retort.
“You said ‘good night.’ Of course, if you didn’t know what you were saying – ” Vera shrugged eloquently.
“Can you not allow your Celtic friend to quote from that most celebrated of all playwrights, Leila Harper?” demanded Leila, with an air of deep injury. “Is not that the hero’s parting speech from my latest and best house play? I can prove it by Robin. Did I not nearly ruin my fine Irish voice drilling the hero to say it with expression?”
In process of delivering this scathing rebuke to Midget Leila bent down and swept Ruffle, Marjorie’s stately Angora cat, into her arms. “It is you and I who will now have a talk about Santa Claus,” she genially informed the struggling, fluffy-haired captive.
“N-n-u-u-u!” objected Ruffle in a deep displeased tone.
“So you can say ‘no.’ Well, it is ‘yes’ you should say. Let me tell you it is not about Santa Claus, but about Ruffle Claws we should be talking. You have a fine sharp assortment.” Ruffle had threateningly spread his claws but had refrained from using them. “You are more gentle than I should be if some tall, wide person had the boldness to swing me up off my feet.” Leila willingly released the big, handsome gray and white puss.
Ruffle immediately sidled over to Miss Susanna, waving his plumy tail. He began a slow walk around her chair, keeping his luminous gray-green eyes fastened persistently upon her. Presently deciding that his mute plea was in vain he hopped up into her lap and settled himself upon it.
“Here comes General. Look out, Miss Susanna. He is more dangerous than Ruffle. He would as soon tip you out of that chair as not.” Marjorie sent out this timely warning.
“Oh, I heard you.” Mr. Dean had stepped briefly into the living room on his way to the street. “I can’t stop to assert myself. Tomorrow I’ll spend a Merry Christmas dumping usurpers out of my chair. Anyone found sitting in it will be eligible to dumping. All persons thus dumped must pick themselves up without the slightest assistance from me.”
“Your hear that, Ruffle?” Robin Page laughingly reached forward and gently tweaked one of Ruffle’s white whiskers.
“Tomorrow never comes,” Marjorie said teasingly. “But, here’s an unofficial order for you, General Dean;” she pointed a forceful finger at her father. “Pick up your detachment as soon as you can and hike for – you know where,” she added with mischievous lights dancing in her brown eyes.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” Mr. Dean saluted. “Never give your superior officer orders. Under the circumstances, however, I will overlook your lack of proper military respect.”
“Thank you, General.” Marjorie saluted with a great show of respect. Her parting injunction to her superior officer, delivered in the next breath was deplorably lacking in that particular military requisite. “You’d better overlook it and obey my order,” she called after him as he left the room, laughing.
“Something is going on here besides a possible visit from Saint Nick,” asserted Vera positively. “The air of mystery in this barrack has been growing ever since dinner. Why did Captain disappear so suddenly, right after dinner, without a word to anyone? And Delia went with her. They slid out the front door in such a rush!”
“It’s Christmas Eve, you know.” Marjorie made this trite explanation with great cheerfulness. “All sorts of remarkable things are likely to happen on Christmas Eve.”
“Then the rest of the crowd must have been lost in this mysterious atmosphere,” commented Leila with naive conviction. “It is eight o’clock, and not one of them here. I have my suspicions of you, Beauty. You are too full of mystery to be reliable. Who knows what dark Christmas contraption you have framed for the poor Lady of the Arms and three more of us?”
“Who knows but I?” Marjorie tantalized. “Oh, well; it wasn’t so very long ago that I walked into a campus contraption all of you had set for me. Please don’t forget to remember that.”
The prolonged peal of the door bell sent her running on light feet to the door. A sound of soft voices and smothered giggles in the hall, then she and Muriel Harding entered the living room.
“What is it you know that you think so funny?” Leila began on Muriel. “I always supposed I knew more than you. It seems I do not.”
“Of course you don’t,” Muriel was quick to assure. “You now see what conceited delusions you’ve cherished. For further delusions consult the stars.”
“I should be ashamed to consult them about such foolishness.” Leila’s smiling urbanity matched Muriel’s own bland assurance. “They might choose to rate me as a dummy.”
“Both doors into the drawing room are locked.” Robin Page now added to the case against Lieutenant Dean. “I was going to charm you with an after-dinner Christmas carol and, bing! Robin was locked out.”
Muriel and Marjorie treated Robin’s plaintive announcement as a huge joke. They locked arms, sat down on the davenport exactly together with a frisky jounce and shed beaming effulgence on their companions.
“There has been a villain’s convention somewhere,” growled Leila in the deep rumble she called her “Celtic double-bass.” “Speak, Lady of the Arms. Name the arch villain.” She made a sudden melodramatic lunge toward Miss Susanna, who had been following the exchange of exuberant raillery in enjoying silence.
“Sh-h-h-h.” Miss Susanna raised a small, cautioning hand. “I’m trying to be good. Don’t break the spell.”
Simultaneous with her warning came a new sound. It proceeded from the very window Marjorie had pointed out to Miss Susanna as a possible entrance for Santa Claus. The window was slowly rising, shoved upward by a pair of energetic arms. Came a flash of shiny black, cherry red and snowy white. Into the room bounced Santa Claus, resplendent in high black boots and long-coated scarlet suit. His rosy face was framed in the venerable whiteness of luxurious cotton locks. His flaming costume was also lavishly trimmed with the same useful cotton.
“Good evening, all,” he piped in a high, cheerful voice. “I have come to find a little girl named Susie Hamilton. I am going to take her and her little playmates to the North Pole with me to spend Christmas Eve.”
