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Title: Marjorie Dean's Romance
Author: Josephine Chase
Release date: November 3, 2016 [eBook #53440]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARJORIE DEAN'S ROMANCE ***
[Illustration:
The Travellers went down the stone walk waving
and calling gay good-byes to the small woman at the
head of the veranda steps.
]
(_Page 36_) (_Marjorie Dean’s Romance_)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MARJORIE DEAN’S
ROMANCE
BY PAULINE LESTER
AUTHOR OF
“The Marjorie Dean High School Series,” “The
Marjorie Dean College Series,” “The Marjorie
Dean Post-Graduate Series,” etc.
[Illustration]
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Printed in U. S. A.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE MARJORIE DEAN
POST-GRADUATE SERIES
A SERIES FOR GIRLS 12 TO 18 YEARS OF AGE
BY PAULINE LESTER
MARJORIE DEAN, POST-GRADUATE
MARJORIE DEAN, MARVELOUS MANAGER
MARJORIE DEAN AT HAMILTON ARMS
MARJORIE DEAN’S ROMANCE
Copyright, 1925
By A. L. BURT COMPANY
MARJORIE DEAN’S ROMANCE
Made in “U. S. A.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MARJORIE DEAN’S
ROMANCE
CHAPTER I.
IN THE STUDY
The sun that pale spring afternoon had appeared only in brief,
tantalizing flashes. Of a sudden it burst through the curtain of ashen
gray clouds, behind which it had been hiding, into flaming glory. Its
warm rays rioted down through the long windows of Brooke Hamilton’s
study, filling the stately room with radiant light; transfiguring the
face of the single occupant.
“Oh.” Marjorie Dean raised her brown eyes from the time-stained sheet of
paper she had been studying. She greeted the wealth of cheerful sunburst
with a fond friendly smile, blinking a little at its almost too-ardent
attention. It caught her, embraced her, caressed her lovely, smiling
face; splashed her bright brown curls with gold.
“You’re an affectionatious old dear, even though you _did_ skulk behind
the clouds all morning.” She made a valiant but vain effort to fix her
eyes directly upon the king of day. “Can’t do it. You are altogether too
dazzling for me.” She raised a shielding hand to her eyes. “Anyway, I’m
glad you are here, full force. I saw you peeping out from behind the
gray quite a while ago. I was too busy then to be sociable.”
“Please, Missus Biographeress, were you talking to me?” broke in an
inquiring, respectful voice. “I wasn’t always like this, so I wasn’t.”
Came an eloquent silence.
Marjorie left off trying to stare the sun out of countenance. She
glanced about the study in half startled surprise. The door leading into
it from the hall was closed. She suddenly laughed, a merry little
gurgle. She fixed an expectant gaze on the study’s back wall.
“I know where you are,” she called out. “No; I wasn’t talking to you. I
was talking to the sun.”
“Then you must be crazy.” The voice was now minus respect. Instead it
harbored smothered laughter.
“No, Jeremiah Macy; I am _not_ crazy. But I am _very very_ busy.”
“That’s almost as bad as being crazy,” came the sympathetic opinion of
the still unseen conversationalist. “I hope you’re not too crazy, excuse
me, busy, to deign to grant your humble friend, Jeremiah, an interview.
Think of our happy bygone campus days and don’t be snippy. Be not only
great, Bean; be cordial.”
“You win. Never dare call me snippy again. Since you are _right behind_
the secret panel you may as well appear in the study.” Marjorie gave
laughing permission.
“Thank you. Your cordiality sounds genuine. I trust nothing has gone
wrong with my hearing. Ahem. What?”
The secret panel in the back wall of the study slid noiselessly to the
left; disappeared into its hidden groove. The square opening it left
framed Jerry Macy’s chubby, pink and white features decorated with a
pleasant smile. Her head was poked forward like that of a speculative
turkey. Her intensely blue eyes were trained upon Marjorie with an
expression of impudent mischief.
“Here I come.” She bent her back and bundled through the aperture.
“Ah-h!” She straightened with satisfaction. “Always close the door after
you, Jeremiah.” She leaned forward; pressed the small oblong of wood
which formed the hidden mechanism of the sliding panel. Next instant the
opening had vanished. The high brown wainscoting again stretched
unbroken along the study’s rear wall.
“That secret panel is certainly a comfort to my lonely old age, Bean.”
Jerry cast a grateful eye in its direction. “If I had come to the door
of this sacred haunt you might have chased me away. But you couldn’t
resist the panel method. Result—enter Jeremiah.” Jerry waved a
complacent hand.
“That’s one version of how I happened to let you in,” teased Marjorie.
“Here’s another. I knew you knew something new on the campus that I
didn’t know. So I ‘deigned to grant’ you an interview.”
“Hm-m. You’re not as noble as you might be. Never mind. We won’t speak
of that,” Jerry hurriedly assured.
“So kind in you,” Marjorie murmured, “or rather, so wise.”
“Precisely my own opinion. I may achieve greatness as soon as you.”
Without waiting for an invitation Jerry slid into a high-backed chair
exactly opposite that of Marjorie at the long library table.
“The girls will be here at five,” she announced. “They’re going to take
us back to Wayland Hall with them. Leila has a new idea for a party.
We’re to stay to dinner at the Hall. Miss Susanna’s resigned to it. She
was invited, too, but she said she was ‘no buttinski.’ What do you think
of that? It shows I’ve accomplished some good since I came to the Arms.
I’ve taught Miss Susanna several pithy bits of slang, and Jonas is
learning fast.”
“I should say he was. The other day when he took me to town in the car
he told a motorist, who tried to run in ahead of us to park, that he was
‘too fresh’ and to ‘cut out his nonsense.’” Marjorie gave a reminiscent
chuckle.
Jerry smiled cheerful gratification of this news. “To make use of my own
pet vocabulary: It’s up to me to show a hot-foot,” she declared. “While
I enjoy lingering in this classic spot with you, beautiful Bean, I shall
not linger. You heard what I said about five o’clock. Heed my remarks. I
must go now.” She made a feeble pretense toward rising. She rolled
humorous, entreating eyes at Marjorie.
“Oh, you may stay.” Marjorie became loftily tolerant. “First you may
tell me everything you know about Leila’s new stunt. Afterward, I have a
splendid job for you.”
“I don’t know a single thing about Leila’s new stunt. She ’phoned me
about half an hour ago and said she and Vera would come for us with the
car at five. She said she had a fine idea but that we’d not hear a word
about it until after dinner at Wayland Hall tonight. Anything else I
might say on the subject I’d have to make up. You would not care to have
your faithful Jeremiah resort to fiction, would you?”
“You’re a faithful goose. I’m not so news-hungry as to ask you to desert
the truth, Jeremiah,” was the merry assurance. “Leila, the rascal, knows
we’re eager for campus news and plans. She loves to create suspense and
keep it up till the very last minute. Now I’m going to set you to work.
You may sort some letters for me, if you will.”
“Will I? My middle name is willing!” Jerry drew her chair closer to the
table with a grand flourish. A pleased light shone in her blue eyes. She
was very proud of having already assisted Marjorie on several occasions
in the work of arranging the data, prior to the writing of Brooke
Hamilton’s biography.
Readers of the four volumes comprising the “MARJORIE DEAN HIGH SCHOOL
SERIES,” know Marjorie Dean as a high school girl. They have learned to
know her still better through the four volumes which comprise the
“MARJORIE DEAN COLLEGE SERIES.”
Returned to Hamilton College as a post graduate her work in connection
with the building of a free dormitory for ambitious students in adverse
circumstances has already been recorded in the three preceding volumes
of the “MARJORIE DEAN POST GRADUATE SERIES,” respectively entitled
“MARJORIE DEAN, COLLEGE POST GRADUATE,” “MARJORIE DEAN, MARVELOUS
MANAGER” and “MARJORIE DEAN AT HAMILTON ARMS.”
Because Marjorie had deeply reverenced the memory of Brooke Hamilton,
the founder of Hamilton College, she had come into an intimate
friendship with his great-niece, Miss Susanna Hamilton, the only living
representative of the Hamilton family. For many years Miss Susanna had
been at enmity with the college board. Shortly after the death of her
distinguished great uncle, Brooke Hamilton, she had turned against
Hamilton College and refused to furnish the data for a biography of the
founder which was to have been written by the president of the college.
Due entirely to Marjorie’s hopeful, sunny influence Miss Susanna had
eventually emerged from the shell in which she had lived for years. She
had decided that, since Marjorie had most revered the maxims and memory
of her great kinsman, she was therefore the one best equipped to present
him truly to the world in a biography. She had invited Marjorie to be
her guest indefinitely at Hamilton Arms and had turned over to the
youthful biographer the data for Brooke Hamilton’s life story.
Marjorie had said good-bye regretfully to Wayland Hall, her college
residence of almost five years and moved to the Arms on the first day of
March. With her had gone a second cordially invited guest, Jerry Macy,
her roommate and chum of Sanford high school days.
During their first week’s stay at the Arms the two girls had been the
center of a jolly little social whirl. Miss Susanna had insisted on
entertaining their intimate friends at tea, luncheon and dinner. The
festive week had ended with a reception to the dormitory girls at which
the Travelers, Jerry’s and Marjorie’s sorority, were the guests of
honor.
Then had followed Marjorie’s introduction to Brooke Hamilton’s study as
her literary work shop. There she had been affectionately established by
Miss Susanna and supplied with a cabinet full of Brooke Hamilton’s
personal letters and documents.
How long she might be engaged in the pleasantest task she had ever
undertaken Marjorie could not say. As a labor of volition it demanded
the best effort of thought and judgment that she could summon. With her
usual lack of vanity she was not attaching much importance to herself as
Brooke Hamilton’s biographer. Her whole heart was set upon doing justice
to a great American by a faithful presentation to the world of his
integrity and genius.
“Do you realize, Jerry Macy, that we’ve been here at the Arms almost a
month?” Her back to Jerry, Marjorie asked the question as she delved
industriously among the packs of neatly tied letters on the top shelf of
the cabinet. “Today’s the twenty-fifth of March.”
“I know it. How much of Brooke Hamilton’s story have you written?” Jerry
came back curiously.
“Not any of it as I intend it shall finally stand,” Marjorie confessed.
“I’ve made plenty of notes, but they only complicate matters at present.
There is so much material, all intensely interesting. It would make a
twelve volume biography. Miss Susanna wishes it to be a one volume
story. My head is full of Hamilton history. It is positively maddening
sometimes to try to keep track of all I read, and plan how I shall
arrange it. I was never intended for a biographer, Jeremiah.”
“You only think you weren’t,” Jerry encouraged. “After you have got away
with Brooke Hamilton’s history and covered your beautiful self with
glory you may take up biographing as a steady job. I’ll permit you to
jot down the story of my life. I’ll try to persuade my friends to
confide their life stories to you for publication. There’s old Hal, for
instance. He—. Oh, forgive me, Marjorie. I didn’t intend to be
personal.” Jerry’s instant apology was regretful. “I wasn’t thinking of
a thing, but the funny side of Hal’s having his biography written.”
“Oh, never mind, Jeremiah.” Marjorie was more embarrassed by Jerry’s
apology than she was at mention of Hal’s name. Her face flushed hotly.
She kept it turned toward the cabinet, rather than let Jerry see her
confusion. A pause, then she added generously: “Hal is good enough to do
great things in the world. Perhaps _you_ may someday write his biography
as that of a personage. There! Found at last.” She affected deep
interest in two bundles of letters which she took from the cabinet.
“No, Marvelous Manager; I can’t see myself as Hal’s biographer. He’d
insist upon seeing every line I biographed before it was hardly off the
bat. He wouldn’t like a thing I said about him. If I wrote words of
glorious praise, he’d say ‘stuff’ and ‘slush.’ If I failed to glorify
him as a baseball artist, a promoter of yacht races and a four-time
winner of the Sanford half-mile dash, he’d say I was stingy.” Jerry
retrieved her blunder with this humorous flow. “_No, siree._ My genius
runs toward jingling, not biographing. Get that? If Hal ever longs to
see the story of his life in print he’ll have to get busy and write it
himself.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER II.
THE WORLD WIDE SECRET
Marjorie was laughing as she resumed her seat at the study table. She
was quick to understand the purpose of Jerry’s ridiculous and elaborate
objections to her really sincere words concerning Hal. Her flash of
self-conscious embarrassment had vanished in quick amusement of Jerry’s
remarks.
“These are letters to Brooke Hamilton from friends,” she explained as
she shoved the two packs across the table to Jerry.
“He must have been right in line for a popularity prize.” Jerry eyed the
tightly-bound, thick stacks of letters with comical respect.
“They represent the correspondence of only four or five men. Each letter
isn’t from a different person, my child,” Marjorie said lightly. “Your
job is to put the letters of each person in separate piles. You may have
that end of the table all to yourself.”
“I get you, Bean.” Jerry energetically gathered up the two packs of
letters and moved with them to the upper end of the table. “Watch my
speed, my efficiency, my celostrous usefulness. By the way, my new word
is on the gain. I’ve persuaded Jonas to use it, Miss Susanna thinks well
of it and Leila says it is clever enough to be Irish.”
“It’s a good imitation. Celostrous—sounds like a real word, even though
it isn’t,” laughingly commented Marjorie.
“Sh-h-h. Somebody might hear you.” Jerry held up a cautioning finger.
She cast a roguish smile toward a vividly handsome face which looked
down at her from a portrait on the wall. It was the face of Brooke
Hamilton. Life-size and life-like the deep blue eyes seemed almost to
twinkle an answer to Jerry’s mischievous smile as she continued to gaze
at the portrait.
“He’s so real.” Marjorie turned her head over one shoulder to glance up
at the pictured face of a strong man in the noon of manhood. A friendly
smile played upon her lips. “I hope you haven’t minded my sitting with
my back to you this afternoon, Mr. Brooke,” she apologized.
“If that was a magic portrait this is the way it would be. ‘Then the
enchanted portrait spoke from the wall and said: “Don’t mention it,
beautiful Bean. Go as far as you like. Even the back of your head is an
inspiration to me. I can never be grateful enough to you for writing my
biography. How is your friend, Miss Macy? She is a lovely girl and I—”’”
“Jeremiah, you disrespecter of great persons!” Marjorie sprang from her
chair and made a frolicsome pounce upon Jerry. “Stop it this minute.”
The two tussled gently for a brief instant, then fell laughingly apart.
The blue eyes of the man in the portrait seemed almost to be watching
the merry conflict.
“You see how utterly you disrupt serious work,” Marjorie pointed out
severely. “I have half a mind to take the job I gave you away from you.”
“You can’t. I have it cinched.” Jerry snatched up the two packs of
letters and tucked one under each arm. “I love the job. I’ll do better,
Bean. I promise on my sacred Jeremiah honor.”
“I haven’t the heart to take those letters away from you,” Marjorie
jestingly conceded.
“Glad of it. Kindly don’t bother me. I am going to give a violent
demonstration of the word ‘work.’ It’s three o’clock now.” Jerry peered
down at the tiny open-face, necklace watch she wore about her neck on a
fine-linked platinum chain.
“I knew it was nearly three. I’ve learned to tell time by the sun since
I came to the Arms and began my work here.” There was no timepiece in
the study, nor would Marjorie wear a watch when she came into it to
work. She did not wish to reckon her daily faithful application to the
biography by time. She liked to lose herself in the thought that all
time was hers in which to do Brooke Hamilton’s memory honor.
Jerry followed her announcement of industry by a business-like attack
upon one of the packs of letters. Soon she was deep in carrying out
Marjorie’s directions. Marjorie resumed a reading of the paper in which
she had been engrossed when Jerry had entered. It was a dissertation on
democracy in Brooke Hamilton’s fine, clear hand.
Silence took up its reign in the study. Marjorie was deep in the
dissertation. Oblivious to all else Jerry interestedly sorted letters,
reading pertinent snatches of them. Neither saw the sliding panel in the
back wall of the study begin to move slowly. Neither saw Miss Susanna’s
head appear in the opened square.
For fully a minute the old lady watched the industrious pair with
brooding, tender eyes. She had thought Marjorie alone in the study and
had come to her by the secret entrance in the same spirit of play which
had prompted Jerry to use the sliding panel. In one hand were three
letters for Marjorie which Jonas had just brought from the mail box at
the main gates of the Arms.
As soundlessly as she had appeared in the secret doorway the visitant
disappeared. In noiseless obedience to her touch the panel slid once
more into place. Miss Susanna trotted down the long hall and on down the
wide staircase. Her small face was illumined by a bright smile. She
looked as though she had suddenly discovered the world-sought secret of
happiness.
She continued on out the massive front door, down the steps and across
the lawn to where Jonas was clipping long sprays of furry pussy willows
for the two tall Chinese vases at each end of the sitting room mantel.
“You ought to see them, Jonas,” she burst out happily. “They’re both in
the study, lost to the world among Uncle Brooke’s papers. I came away
without their knowing I saw them. I couldn’t bear to disturb his
helpers, Jonas. And I once thought no one but the president of Hamilton
College was fitted to write his biography!”
“Strange things happen, Miss Susanna.” Jonas’s silver head wagged itself
solemnly over the huge bunch of pussy willows he was holding. “He’d be
better pleased, though, to have things as they are now. I believe he’d
rather the little girl would write his story.”
Jonas invariably spoke of Brooke Hamilton as one alive, but traveling in
a far country, rather than of a man who had passed from earth.
“I think so, too, Jonas.” The instant, eager response brought a pleased
gleam to the old man’s eyes. “He founded Hamilton College for the higher
education of girls. It seems as though Hamilton has at last shown
appreciation of him by raising up a student after his own heart. That
student is Marjorie Dean.” She paused, apparently taken with her own
fancy. She added sturdily: “All the more reason why she should be the
one to write his biography.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER III.
TWO HAUNTING BLUE EYES
“Hurray for Wayland Hall!” Jerry sketched a lively step in front of the
dressing table mirror as she gave her reflection a last fleeting glance.
“The Arms is a magnificent, palatial roost, but where, oh, where, are
our little pals?”
“At Wayland Hall. Sometimes I wonder if you might not be happier there
with the girls than here with me.” Marjorie brought a half wistful look
to bear upon Jerry. She stood gazing at her chum, a lovely contemplative
study in black and white. The straight cut of her white corduroy gown
with its wide rolling collar and deep cuffs of black satin was so simple
as to be exceptionally effective.
“Want me to shake you until your curls bob straight off your head and
your teeth clatter like castanets,” Jerry growled menacingly. She made a
threatening advance upon Marjorie, her blue eyes set in a determined
stare.
“No, indeed.” Marjorie promptly put a high-backed chair between herself
and Jerry. “I’ll protect my coiffure to the last gasp. I took pains to
put those curls precisely where I wanted them to be.”
“Then don’t make any more foolish remarks, Bean.” Jerry halted. The set
expression of her eyes changed to one of dancing fun. “I’ll set you a
good example by not making any more myself that might even sound
foolish. I know my own follies as well as I know yours.”
Marjorie leaned her arms on the crest of the tall-backed chair. She
smiled rather absently. How like Hal’s eyes Jerry’s were, she was
thinking. Recent mention of Hal had brought him to the foreground of her
mind. Now she thrust memory of him impatiently aside.
“I’ll be nicer to you than you were to me,” she told Jerry. “You look
very celostrous, Jeremiah.” “Celostrous” was a pet word of Jerry’s own
coining. “Your dress matches your eyes and the silver beading on it
looks like fairy mist. It’s a frock of frocks.” Marjorie continued her
admiring survey of Jerry and her becoming finery. As she had remarked
the gentian blue of the crepe exactly matched her chum’s eyes.
Again Hal’s handsome, resolute features sprang into memory. This time
memory played her an unkind trick. She saw Hal’s eyes as they had
appeared in that unforgettable, unguarded moment as he had paused before
the portrait of herself at Castle Dean on Christmas Day.
She had then come into a very disturbing realization of how much pain
she was causing him through her lack of love for him. She had tried to
forget, knowing that she could offer no remedy. Work had largely driven
away that disturbing memory since her return to Hamilton. Those two
blue, despairing eyes returned to haunt her only upon receipt of a
letter from their possessor. There had been only two letters. Marjorie
had not answered either very promptly. She sometimes went so far as to
feel that she might be better pleased not to hear from Hal. Still she
did not wish to deny him friendship.
“You are _too sweet_ for words.” Jerry broke in upon her train of
reflection. She purposely simpered so as to hide her pleased
embarrassment of Marjorie’s compliments.
“Am I?” Marjorie was not even seeing Jerry now. She was seeing Jerry’s
brother who refused to retire from her somber reflections. No; she
valued Hal’s friendship as dearly as she did Leila’s, Jerry’s or that of
any of her chums. Her adoration was for her captain and her general
only. Now that she had a clearer understanding of Hal’s disappointment
she felt a more personal sorrow toward him. She had glimpsed the
desolation of a strong man’s soul. The revelation had awakened in her a
truer sympathy for him.
“Come out of it.” Jerry had paused directly in front of the chair on
which Marjorie was leaning her elbows. She waved her arms making
vigorous passes before the day-dreamer’s face. “What is the matter,
Bean? Two minutes ago you were one grand sweet smile. Now your
expression is werry sad. You _have not_ lost your last friend, Bean.
Take heart. Jeremiah is here. Ah! I have it! Nothing like Bean Jingles
to put the chee in chirk. Here we go!
“Celostrous day; rip whoop-ter-ray;
We celebrate with zest:
Your feathers preen, resplendent Bean,
All dressed up in your best.”
“According to your jingle ‘resplendent Bean’ must resemble a vain,
strutting peacock.” Marjorie came out of her retrospective reverie with
a giggle.
“No, indeed. I never meant to suggest such a thing. Regard yourself as a
bird of Paradise, dear Bean,” Jerry corrected.
“I am not so conceited. Besides, I’m not dressed up in my best. This
particular set of feathers is far from gorgeous; and not even my second
best.”
“Have a heart. Remember the claim of poetic license, and respect it.
Your practical, unpoetic criticism is _so_ discouraging. Don’t put on
the brake. There are more rhythmic inspirations to come. I feel them
whirling madly in my gifted brain. I merely stopped for breath.
Whir-r-r-r! Buzz-z-z-z! I’m off again.
“Oh, forth we’ll hike, upon the pike,
Beyond the campus wall;
We’ll tread the green, sweet, agile Bean,
Until we hit the Hall.
A charming pair, we’ll mount the stair;
Dear one, then take my arm:
Safe to fifteen, bewitching Bean
I’ll guide you without harm.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER IV.
THE SPRINGTIME OF THE HEART
“And you will please trouble yourself to recite that jingle again before
it vanishes into nothingness,” commanded a laughing voice from the
doorway of the large, old-fashioned sleeping room. Leila Harper stood in
the half-opened door, an attractive figure in the newest of English
leather motor coats and sports hats.
“Leila Greatheart, what a _dandy_ coat and hat!” Marjorie cried. She
came forward, hands outstretched to meet Leila.
“Here I come with a fine Irish dash.” Leila made a funny cat-like leap
into the room and caught Marjorie’s welcoming hands in hers. “It is a
hundred years since I saw you; or so it seems,” she said in her
whimsical way. “Now I shall say not a word more until I have taken down
Jeremiah’s jingle. I happen to have a pencil, and bewitching Bean
herself will furnish her Celtic friend with a bit of paper.”
“At your service. Let me conduct you to the writing desk,” Marjorie took
Leila’s arm and escorted her to an open antique mahogany desk. She
motioned Leila into the mahogany chair before it. “There you are.” She
indicated several sizes of pale gray note paper bearing the monogram of
the Arms. “Isn’t this beautiful paper, Leila?” she commented. “Miss
Susanna put it here on purpose for us. She never uses it. She prefers
white. This was Mr. Brooke Hamilton’s own stationary.”
“You are two lucky children in a fairy castle,” Leila declared. “Now say
me the jingle, Jeremiah. Then we will talk about everything and
anything.”
“Ahem.” Jerry coughed importantly. “I may have to depend upon bewitching
Bean to help me. I never remember my own ravings—inspirations, I should
say. Inspiration is—it is—well, it just is.”
“Is it?” Leila inquired with raised brows and an engaging grin.
“It certainly is,” Jerry responded with a difficult solemnity. It broke
up in an amused high-keyed chuckle. Merely to glance at Leila, posed in
an attitude of expectant and ridiculous affability was to laugh.
After one or two hitches and a little prompting from Marjorie who also
had designs on Jerry’s funny effusions, Leila managed to record the
three jingles, though she had arrived in time to hear only the last one
of them.
“Now we have a beginning.” She exhibited open satisfaction of the
penciled copy of Jerry’s lively doggerel. She folded it twice and placed
it in a pocket of her leather motor coat. “I shall expect you to take
down and save me all future jingles of Jeremiah, Beauty, since you are
the inspiration. Never fail to do so. Now you may talk to me about
anything. I am so gracious.”
“I have copies of two jingles that Jeremiah spouted last week on an
occasion when I brought her four letters from the mail-box. I’ll mail
you copies of them tomorrow. Where is Midget? I know she can’t be far
away.”
Marjorie glanced inquiringly at Leila.
“She is lost somewhere in space downstairs. She is but a small doll in
this great house. And you now promise me two more jingles. Two and two
are four, and four is better than two. Soon we shall have a book. It
must have a green crushed Levant binding with a portrait of Jeremiah
reciting one of her own jingles as a frontispiece and the story of her
life printed in gold letters on the front cover.”
“It looks as though I might become as famous as Bean, Harper, Page or
any other campus high light if that crushed Levant edition doesn’t
flivver,” Jerry said hopefully.
Full of their usual light-hearted raillery the trio of girls presently
went downstairs to find not only Vera Mason in the sitting room with
Miss Hamilton. Ronny Linde, Muriel Harding, Lucy Warner and Robin Page
as well were there, clustered around Miss Susanna. They greeted Jerry
and Marjorie with a concerted shout and rushed them affectionately.
“How did the four of you manage to keep so quiet?” Jerry demanded. “I’m
amazed.”
“You needn’t be. You were so noisy yourselves you didn’t hear us. But
_we_ heard _you_,” Vera assured. “We heard three different varieties of
giggle, all going at once. Leila was told to hurry upstairs and bring
you down instantly. Instead—” She cast an accusing glance at Leila.
“Ah, but you were in good company, so I may be forgiven.” Leila made a
gallant bow to Miss Susanna.
“You certainly are a fine Irish gentleman with your lordly manner and
nice leather overcoat,” complimented Miss Susanna, her brown eyes
dancing.
“Am I not?” modestly agreed Leila. “What I need most to make me
impressive is a pair of green leather boots and a chimney pot hat.”
“I’ll cast you as the romantic Irish hero of a play in precisely that
costume. See if I don’t,” Robin Page laughingly threatened.
“Who will write the play?” Leila quizzed interestedly.
“You of course.” Robin leveled a designating finger at Leila. “That’s a
bully idea; to give a romantic Irish play. And for once you may act as
well as be stage manager. So glad I happened to see you this afternoon
and hear about your green leather boots and chimney pot hat.”
“As you will not require anything of me but to write the play, manage
the stage and play the leading part I’ll not change your gladness to
sorrow by snubbing you. Still I am wondering where I am to find the
boots and the hat. And let me add a condition of my own. I will not be
stage manager, actor or playwright unless Miss Susanna will promise to
come to the show.” Leila launched this proviso with her most
ingratiating smile in Miss Hamilton’s direction.
“I’ll come,” the old lady obligingly promised. Now that she had
“surrendered,” as she humorously termed her change of heart toward
Hamilton College she was almost as eager as her girls to have some part
in campus fun and enterprise. “Will it be a house play?”
“No it will not.” Marjorie and Robin spoke the same words, and almost
together. They looked at each other and laughed. The same thought had
prompted the same answer.
“Wise Page and Dean. They see money in featuring Leila as the hero in
her green boots and chimney pot hat,” was Ronny’s light explanation of
the exchange of eye messages.
“Do we? Well, _rather_!” Marjorie said with warmth.
“Uh-huh,” emphasized Robin. “The campus dwellers will mob the gym to see
Irish Leila as an Irish hero in an Irish play. We’ll reap a bully
harvest of dollars for the dormitory.”
“You and Vera can do that Irish contra dance you danced at Page and
Dean’s first show when we were junies.” Muriel grew animated. “In itself
it’s worth the price of admission.”
“Oh, _do_ have it in the play, Leila,” rose the general plea.
Leila bowed, hand over her heart. “How celebrated Midget and Leila are!
That means Midget must play the part of the maid from Lough Gur, of the
county Limerick. That is the place in Ireland where the fairies yet hold
their invisible revels. And I think Midget might be taken for one of the
Lough Gur fairy queens,” she said fancifully. “I am afraid to invite her
home with me to Ireland for fear the fairy folk may steal her and shut
her up in a mountain.”
“Not if I see them first,” Vera was positive upon this point.
“Midget is small, but valiant.” Leila rolled laughing eyes at her
friends. “Ah, but you would not _see_ the fairies, Midget, when they
slipped you away. You would not see them until you were safe inside the
mountain.”
“Then I’ll keep far from Ireland. I’ll be Irish in plays only,” Vera
vowed.
“Be sure and save a good part for Luciferous Warneriferous,” was
Muriel’s next thoughtful request. “She simply loves to act.”
“Oh, I do not.” Lucy looked alarmed. A gale of laughter went up at her
horrified denial. “I can’t act. You know that, Muriel Harding.”
“You should learn to act,” Muriel said with severity. “It is your duty.
_I_ am giving you good advice. These persons are laughing at you.”
“Who made them laugh? Keep your advice. I’m furious with _you_.
Br-r-r-r!” Lucy shook her head savagely, thrust her chin forward and
fixed her greenish eyes upon Muriel in a frozen glare which convulsed
that delighted wag. She thoroughly enjoyed teasing dignified Lucy to the
point of retaliating.
“Oh, splendid! You look every inch a villain!” Muriel simulated profound
admiration. “You have true histrionic ability, Luciferous. Let my
flattering opinion sink deep, and encourage you.”
“I’ll let it go in one ear and out the other,” was Lucy’s derisive
retort. “Don’t _dare_ choose me even for a villager in your Irish play,
Leila Harper. I’ll be far more useful as a press agent. I’ll get up a
handbill about the play, and mimeograph it.”
“Bully idea, Luciferous. Be sure and hit all the high spots. When you
have the handbills ready you may stand outside Hamilton Hall and
distribute them to the campus dwellers.” Jerry patted Lucy on the
shoulder with force.
“Ouch! That’s one of my high spots you just hit.” Lucy dodged out of
Jerry’s reach, rubbing her assaulted shoulder. “I’d rather give out
handbills any time than act,” she declared with a defiant glance at
laughing Muriel.
“Be calm, Luciferous,” soothed Leila with an assuring grin. “I would
rather have the handbills than you on the stage as a villain. It is
Matchless Muriel who may have the pleasure of playing that part. She
will have plenty of lines to learn.” Leila nodded significantly toward
Muriel who merely continued to smile.
“Biographers, bill posters, stage managers, actors, et cetera;
attention!” Vera called out. She pointed to the tall floor clock,
imperturbably ticking off the minutes. “It’s five minutes to six. Too
bad I always have to be time crier for this reckless aggregation.” She
heaved a dismal sigh. “What _would_ you do without me?”
“Be laggards all the rest of our lives, faithful Midget. You are one of
the world’s finest institutions.” Leila beamed patronizing appreciation
on her diminutive chum.
“I know my own worth. I am surprised to find you have an inkling of it,”
Vera retorted with complacent dignity.
“A dignified Midget is so impressive,” murmured Leila. “See how wrapped
up in her small self she is. She has forgotten about being town crier. I
see I must—.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. I’m still on the job. It’s now five minutes
later than it was five minutes ago,” Vera hastily announced.
“Come, good Travelers.” Muriel took the middle of the floor in a stiff
recitative attitude. Raising one arm she declaimed in a high stilted
voice: “Let us journey with all speed toward shelter ere dark night
o’ertakes us.”
“Something like that,” was Ronny’s ultra modern agreement. “With so much
talk and so little action it may be midnight ere we see the Hall. I’m
not speaking of myself, or of Miss Susanna. We’re not loquacious.”
“_You_ only miss being loquacious because you haven’t happened to start
an argument with Matchless Muriel. I should hope you _weren’t_ speaking
of Miss Susanna.” Jerry put on a shocked expression.
“Don’t squabble over me,” Miss Hamilton said in a meek little voice.
Followed a burst of ready laughter. She said as it died out: “I’m going
to send you home now, children. Come back tomorrow evening to dinner.
Bring Kathie and Lillian with you. Robin, please invite Phil and
Barbara. Tell Phil to bring her fiddle. I will invite Peter and Anne
Graham, and Signor Baretti. He will like to come to our party. He and
Peter will be company for Jonas. I shall make Jonas sit at the table
with us.”
The Travelers thought Miss Susanna’s sisterly regard for Jonas one of
her finest characteristics. While he had been a youthful servitor of the
Hamiltons during Brooke Hamilton’s declining years, he had filled the
triple role of brother, servitor and friend to the Lady of the Arms
during her long lonely reign in the great house. He was many years older
than Miss Susanna, but still a strong, sturdy man.
Jonas looked upon Miss Susanna as an empress, to be reverenced and
obeyed. Miss Hamilton’s oft repeated assertion to him: “You are a direct
importation of Providence, Jonas, willed me by Uncle Brooke,” had made a
deep impression on him at first utterance. As a consequence, his one aim
in life was that of faithful service. Rarely could she coax him to
appear socially at the Arms, even among the few friends who knew his
worth.
“You’re always thinking up something perfectly, splendidly hospitable!”
As she rose from her chair to see the Travelers to the front door
Marjorie pounced lovingly upon the Lady of the Arms, wrapping both arms
around her.
“A hold up, a hold up!” cried Jerry. “I’m going to join in it.” She made
a playful attempt to pry Marjorie’s arms loose from about the old lady.
The others gathered around the pair, mischievous and laughing. They put
Miss Susanna through a gentle wooling which left her with ruffled hair,
her lace collar awry and her cheeks pink from the loving salutes of
fresh young lips.
The Travelers went down the wide stone walk from the house looking back,
waving and calling gay good-byes to the small, alert woman at the head
of the veranda steps. The gate reached, Marjorie turned to wave her hand
again. She mentally contrasted Miss Susanna’s happy expression of the
present occasion with the sharp, doubting, half resentful gaze the
mistress of the Arms had turned upon her when she had first been ushered
into the library by Jonas to meet Brooke Hamilton’s kinswoman. Where
there had once been shadow, somber silence, loneliness, was now light of
love, gay friendly voices, sympathy, companionship.
It had been Miss Susanna’s wish that Marjorie and Jerry should be at the
Arms to greet the return of Spring. Remembering this a rare, rapturous
flash of exaltation swept over Marjorie. She was thinking as she waved
her hand to the little old lady on the veranda that Spring had not only
returned to the Arms. It had miraculously returned to Miss Susanna’s
heart.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER V.
FOR THE GOOD OF THE “DORM”
“What’s on your mind, Leila Greatheart? You’ve thrown out tantalizing
little scraps of what I’d call non-information ever since we left the
Arms. Now stand, and deliver.” Marjorie made her plea for enlightenment
as Leila closed the door of her room and favored her chums with one of
her bland, wide smiles.
Dinner over at the Hall, the eight Travelers had lingered in Miss
Remson’s snug office to talk to the little manager for a pleasant half
hour. They had just made port in Leila’s and Vera’s room for what
promised to be a most interesting session.
“What’s on my mind, Beauty?” Leila regarded Marjorie owlishly. “More
than you might think, should you judge by appearance,” she said with
mock seriousness. “I am enchanted with myself because of my own schemes.
Sit in a circle around me and listen to the golden runes of Leila, the
witch woman. I see gold, gold, gol-l-d.”
She made a sudden forward sweep of the arm toward Jerry who was about to
seat herself on Vera’s couch beside Lucy Warner. Jerry raised a mild
shriek of surprise, flopped against Lucy who was near the end of the
couch. Unprepared for such a jolt, Lucy rolled off the end of the couch
to the floor. Jerry clutched wildly at her arm. Her balance upset she
followed Lucy to the floor and sat down upon her amid shouts of
merriment from the six gleeful spectators to the double mishap.
“Now see where you put me.” Jerry still sat on the floor regarding Leila
with an air of deep injury. Lucy had scrambled to her feet and made for
a chair. “The very least you can do is help me up. Give me your hands,
and don’t dare let go.” Jerry held up her hands to her still mirthful
hostess.
Leila essayed the task of raising Jerry to her feet. Laughter robbed her
of power to lift Jerry. It also robbed Jerry of power to raise herself
from the floor. After three separate attempts at co-operation, all
mirthfully unsuccessful, Jerry was hoisted to her feet by the combined
efforts of Marjorie, Ronny and Muriel.
“You are an awful hostess.” Jerry opened her mouth widely on “awful” and
ducked her head violently forward at Leila. “First you scare your guests
by making wild sweeping swoops at them. Then you laugh at them when they
come to grief. This time I’ll choose the middle of the couch, and be
safe.” Very cautiously she re-seated herself on the couch, squarely in
the center.
“We’ll sit one on each side of you, Jeremiah, so that you can’t fall off
the couch again.” Ronny plumped down on the couch on one side of Jerry.
Muriel obligingly seated herself on the other side.
“_I_ was shoved off that couch and sat upon by Jeremiah, yet no one
appears to remember it,” Lucy mournfully complained.
“I remember it. You tipped me off your lap,” accused Jerry.
“But you tipped me off the couch first,” reminded Lucy. “I forgive you,
but never again will I sit on a couch beside you.”
“I always try to look upon everything that happens as for the best,”
Jerry returned with angelic sweetness.
“There were no bones broken, but there was plenty of fuss made.” Leila
thus summed up the accident. “Now pay attention to me, and let us have
no more nonsense.” Whereupon she burst out laughing, thus starting her
companions’ merriment afresh.
Quiet finally restored she began again. This time with the fine
earnestness which she could readily summon when occasion demanded.
“Travelers, dear,” she addressed the now attentive seven, “we have left
only six days of March, then April, May and the early part of June in
which to earn money for the dormitory. We must give as many shows as we
can manage between now and Commencement. We must give the Irish play the
first week in May. I shall write it in one week. It will be nothing
startling, but it will be a play, I grant you that. I shall have a sorry
siege to make the cast learn their lines in two weeks. It must be done.
We must rehearse four nights in a week. Vera will make cunning Irish
token cards and we shall sell them for a silver quarter apiece.”
“First I had heard of my new job, but I accept. May I inquire into the
mystery of an Irish token card?” Vera asked with an assumption of
profound respect.
“You will draw many little pictures of the cast, Midget, on many little
cards,” was Leila’s somewhat indefinite answer. “You will learn more
about my Celtic schemes when I am not so busy.”
“Oh, very well. See that _you_ don’t interrupt any of _my_ busy hours.
If you see me put up a busy sign on my side of the room, respect it,”
warned Vera.
“See that _you_ do not again interrupt _me_,” flung back Leila, scowling
portentously at her diminutive roommate.
Everyone else interrupted, however, and Leila had to come to a laughing
stop in her harangue until she had enlightened the party regarding
“Irish token cards.”
Like her artist father, Vera was gifted with the ability to draw.
Leila’s idea of having small, head-and-shoulder, pen-and-ink sketches of
the various characters in the play drawn on oblong cards, three by one
and a half inches, was decidedly interesting from an artistic as well as
a financial standpoint. Below the sketch would appear the stage name of
the character, the true name and the date of the play.
“Vera won’t be able to do many cards, Leila. She won’t have time. She
can’t make the rough sketches until we have our costumes and know
ourselves how we are going to look,” was Ronny’s doubtful view of the
feature.
“Oh, I can draw the different characters as they ought to look. Leila
can show me the style of costume to be followed by the actors. I’ll draw
each character once, leaving out the features till I know who will be
who. Then I can fill in the blanks with the familiar eyes, noses, mouths
and ears of the illustrious cast. After that it will only mean hours and
hours of tedious copying my originals.” Vera made a triumphant
outspreading gesture of the arms indicative of her mastery of the
situation.
“How we do miss Ethel Laird,” sighed Ronny. “She was so clever. Do you
remember how gorgeous those posters for the first show were that she
painted. What became of them, Marvelous Manager?” She looked quickly
toward Marjorie as though seized with a sudden idea.
“They’re with the other properties in the Page and Dean section of the
garret,” Marjorie replied. “At least they were still there the last time
I was up garret. That was after the Valentine masquerade. What is it,
Ronny? I see you have something on your mind.”
“Let’s have an auction,” eagerly proposed Ronny.
“Not now; not until the first of June. We could clear up all the stuff
we have used for advertising the shows, and other treasures of our own
that have campus history, and auction them off. Let Jerry be the
auctioneer. Oh, lovely! What?”
“Oh, lovely,” mimicked Jerry. “There is nothing very lovely about hard
labor.”
“No use in pretending, Jeremiah. You know you’d revel in being an
auctioneer.” Ronny shook her finger at Jerry.
“I’ve heard of worse stunts,” Jerry admitted with a grin.
“I have nearly as good an opinion of you, Ronny, as I have of myself,”
Leila graciously conceded. “You and Jeremiah have my permission to
manage the auction. You may collect all the wares for it, and do all the
work. Between times, when you have little to do, you may dance in my
shows.”
“_Your_ shows?” Ronny’s eyebrows ascended to a politely satiric height.
“_My_ shows,” repeated Leila with great firmness. “Have you not yet
learned that Page and Dean amount to little without me. It is Harper and
Harper who should have all the credit.”
“Right-o!” exclaimed Marjorie and Robin exactly together.
“Now why did you agree with me?” Leila demanded, her tone full of
innocent Celtic surprise. “That was merely one of my Celtic jests.”
“‘Many a true word,’ you know,” cited Robin.
“We’ll make you senior partner in the firm, Leila Greatheart,” was
Marjorie’s generous proposal. “Harper, Page and Dean has a fine,
dignified sound.”
“Away with you!” Leila waved off the suggestion. “I am deaf to such a
sound. Say no more, or I shall fly into one of my fierce frenzies. Now I
am here not to rage, but to keep Midget in order, and conduct this
meeting.”
“_In order?_” Vera interrogated in an awful voice. “Kindly state _when_
I have been out of order since this go-as-you-please session began.”
“Not at all, Midget; not at all—as yet,” Leila laid significant stress
on “as yet.” “So we may hope for the best and change the subject,” she
hastily added.
“It’s high time it was changed,” Vera said loftily.
Leila turned comical eyes upon the company. Then she continued: “Now we
have the Irish play and the auction on the carpet. Soon we shall be
giving Kathie’s new play: ‘The Knight of the Northern Sun.’ Gentleman
Gus will be featured in that. Kathie had finished the writing of it.
Luciferous has already typed the parts. And I have picked a fine
heroine. The Ice Queen is to play the part of Nageda, the Norse
princess.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VI.
A TANTALIZING GLIMPSE
“Where did you collect the nerve to ask that ask?” Jerry admiringly
demanded of Leila, following the shout of surprise from the others.
“I have nerve for any occasion,” was the modest reply.
“I believe you. What did the Ice Queen say to you, or was she too icily
iced for words? I get you that she must have made a ‘yes’ sign, in spite
of her freezing frozenness.”
“She said ‘yes.’ I went straight to the point with plenty of coolness in
my own sweet Irish voice,” Leila answered with a touch of grimness. “She
loves to be a center of attraction. I have a good idea of her beauty and
cleverness. She knows that. We made the bargain like two veterans. She
does not wish for my friendship. I can live without hers. We have in
Ireland our own proverb of fair exchange. It is: ‘To exchange needs with
your neighbor is nothing lost to him or you.’”
“In this instance it is everything gained,” Marjorie blithely asserted.
“You are the same old wonder, Leila Greatheart. I must make a list of
these coming attractions now.” She opened the small blue leather
notebook which she was seldom without now wherever she happened to go on
the campus. She wrote busily for a little, oblivious of the murmur of
discussion going on around her.
“Three sure-fire attractions,” she exulted, as she presently glanced up
from her notebook.
“I’ve something to report, too. I’ve at last persuaded Miss Oliver to
let us feature her in a musicale in Greek Hall. It’s to come off a week
from Friday evening.” Robin’s announcement was touched with pride.
It was the signal for another little burst of surprise. While Candace
Oliver, the freshman musical genius who one of the Craig Hall girls had
discovered, had on several occasions reluctantly played for Robin and a
few other admiring students, she had steadily refused to appear on the
college stage as a pianiste.
“Another obstacle surmounted. How did you do it? I thought I was too
persuasive to be resisted, but she turned me down,” commented Muriel.
“Oh, I asked her to let us feature her, every time I met her. I used all
the nice pleasant arguments I could think of but without effect. The
other day I happened to meet her at Baretti’s. I introduced Signor
Baretti to her. I was sitting at the same table with her and Baretti
came up, as always, to speak to me. He only stayed a minute, but in that
minute I remarked to him that Miss Oliver was a wonderful pianiste. He
looked truly impressed and said in his odd way: ‘I like hear you play
som’time. When you play in Miss Page, Miss Dean’s show, for help the
dormitory. Miss Page, you come tell me when Miss Ol-ee-var play.’ I
smiled at Miss Oliver. She had turned red as a poppy. Then I said, sweet
as cream: ‘I surely _will_ let you know, Signor Baretti.’”
“What did she say?” Ronny voiced the question that stood in six pairs of
bright eyes.
“Oh, he trotted off just then, and I didn’t give her time to say a word.
I began telling her about him and how sincere his interest in the
dormitory was, and how he had fought for Page and Dean, and how
altogether great-spirited he was. She listened without saying much. She
was half through luncheon when I sat down at her table. She left the
restaurant as soon as she had finished her dessert. Next day I received
a four line note from her. She said in it that she had changed her mind
about not being featured at a musicale. ‘I wish to do my part to help
the dorm’ girls,’ was the line that made Robin execute a hornpipe.”
“The infallible Guiseppe again to the rescue,” Vera said lightly, yet
with a certain pleased intonation which expressed the appreciation
underlying it.
“Attraction number four.” Amid the gratified murmur which followed
Robin’s recital, Marjorie set down the musicale in her book. “What is
Miss Oliver’s program, Robin? Of course you’ve seen her since you
received her note.” Marjorie knew that Robin was sure of her prize.
“Three Chopin numbers and Beethoven’s ‘Sonata Appassionata.’ Phil is
going to play one of Brahm’s Hungarian dances and Jensen’s ‘Romance.’
Verna Burkett is going to sing. She has a glorious contralto voice, and
Reba Hoffman, that little blonde German dorm will give a ’cello number.
I am anxious to exploit dorm talent, too. It’s going to be a hummer of a
program. I think we ought to charge two dollars apiece for the tickets,
the same as we charge for our revues. What do you think about it,
Marjorie?” Robin earnestly consulted her partner. “You know we only
charged a dollar and a half for tickets for the last musicale.”
“I don’t believe two dollars a seat will be considered robbery. We
always reserve free seats for the dormitory girls at all the shows. The
other Hamiltonites can afford to pay two dollars apiece for the kind of
entertainment we shall offer. They’d have to pay from two to three
dollars apiece for good seats at a special benefit musicale wherever
they might go,” was Marjorie’s candid reply. “I don’t wish to seem
priggish, but they could spend their allowance checks for no better
cause.”
“True as truth, good partner,” Robin agreed, with a saucy little nod.
“Oh, dear,” she changed to plaintive in a twinkling. “I wish we might
use the Hamilton Concert Hall for the musicale. Think of the money we’d
take in. Greek Hall is hardly more than half as large.”
“Why can’t you use it?” asked Lucy Warner with crisp suddenness.
“No one has the nerve to ask Prexy for the use of it, my child.” Vera
bent a benign glance upon Lucy which contrasted oddly with her doll-like
daintiness.
“Why not?” Lucy persisted.
“Prexy has yet to come to one of our shows, Luciferous,” Marjorie said
quietly. “We’ve always sent him tickets, and Mrs. Prexy and her friends
have come to them. But he never has. He approves of the dormitory
enterprise. He has been friendly with me on all occasions, but—”
Marjorie smiled—“he never appears at our revues.”
“It’s the one thorn on Page and Dean’s rosebush,” laughed Robin.
“Besides, Luciferous, we’ve never felt like trying to break into the
regular college lecture and concert programs with our shows. It’s more a
matter of deference than anything else. If he had ever offered the hall
to us, we’d have accepted the offer instanter. But he never has.”
“I believe it never occurred to him,” Lucy said bluntly. “I wish I’d
known long ago. I’ll ask him tomorrow for the use of it.”
“Lu-ciferous!” Muriel beamed on Lucy with a radiance too joyous to be
genuine. “You deserve a citation. That is you will deserve one if you
put the Prexy problem across. Do so, and I will cite your good conduct
tomorrow evening in this very room at precisely seven o’clock. You will
receive a tin star, three whacks on the shoulder and a ticket to the
Hamilton Movie Palace. Popcorn and pink lemonade will be served to all.”
Muriel effulgently included the rest of the party in the generous
invitation.
The next five minutes were spent in jubilantly rushing Lucy. She
received approving pats on the shoulders, pats on the back and pats on
the head. Each Traveler tried to outdo the other in contributing funnily
approving remarks. Muriel smilingly proposed raising Lucy to Jerry’s and
her shoulders and parading about the room with her. Jerry and Lucy both
had strong objections to the honor walk.
“I wouldn’t trust either of you to carry me two feet,” Lucy declared
mirthfully. “Now never mind rushing me further. Leila beguiled us here
with the promise of hearing something extraordinary. I have yet to hear
it.”
“So I did.” Leila surveyed the Travelers, whose attention had quickly
returned to her, her bright blue eyes asparkle. “Now this is what I have
to say.”
As she laid her plan before her chums, a constant chorus of gurgles,
giggles and chuckles accompanied her words. The instant she paused Jerry
raised a not too loud cheer of approbation which the others echoed.
“I am indebted to you, Matchless Muriel, for suggesting the proper kind
of refreshments. You may believe that popcorn and pink lemonade will be
served at our party along with gum drops and peppermint sticks. I had
not yet thought of the eats until you spoke. Now I shall get up a fine
spread.” Leila’s tone conveyed her deep satisfaction.
“It will be oceans of fun.” Muriel had already begun to laugh as she
thought of what her part in the event should be.
“The gentlemen of the campus may have to hunt diligently for suitable
wardrobe. I shall see about mine at once.” Vera giggled softly.
Her naive remark was the signal for a fresh explosion of mirth. In a
room further along the hall a girl moodily rested her pen to listen to
the breath of laughter wafted faintly to her through walls and closed
doors. Doris Monroe tried to frown at the distant sounds of harmonious
comradeship. She found that she was not angry. She was despondent
because she was lonely. She was beginning to glimpse a side of college
life, wholly desirable, but, unfortunately for her, beyond her reach.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VII.
THE DARK TOWER
Doris Monroe had seen Marjorie and Jerry in the dining room of Wayland
Hall that evening. She knew the Travelers were holding a social session
in Leila’s and Vera’s room and somberly envied them their fun. Things
had been distressingly dull for her since her return from the holiday
vacation spent with Leslie Cairns in New York.
She had thoroughly enjoyed herself in New York after Mrs. Gaylord,
Leslie’s chaperon, had appeared at the Essenden, the apartment hotel in
which Leslie had engaged the Dresden suite of rooms. Leslie, too, had
been more agreeable during that short, blissful two weeks of fine
dressing, expensive dinners, luncheons and theatres than Doris had known
her to be either before or since the vacation.
The few times she had been in Leslie’s company after their return to
Hamilton, Leslie had been preoccupied, irritable and altogether
unpleasant. She had been so patently uncongenial that Doris had
preferred to keep away from her on the plea of study. This plea was at
least sound. Doris had had her hands full for a time in trying to stave
off being conditioned in mathematics.
She had known nothing of Leslie’s downfall as a business woman. It was
at least three weeks after Leslie had reluctantly obeyed her father’s
mandate and left Hamilton for New York before she had written Doris a
letter from an apartment on Central Park West which Mrs. Gaylord had
secured for the two as a residence.
In the letter Leslie had stated that she would return to Hamilton for a
few days early in April. She had not, however, explained her sudden
departure, nor had she mentioned the disruption of her garage
enterprise. Doris had answered the letter, feeling secretly relieved
that Leslie was not in Hamilton. She had a shrewd idea that Leslie’s
father might be responsible for Leslie’s return to New York. She had
heard enough of the conversation between Leslie and her chaperon on the
occasion, when Mrs. Gaylord had arrived unexpectedly at the Essenden, to
guess that Leslie and her father were not on very congenial terms.
Leslie had left Doris the Dazzler, the white car she was so fond of
driving. She had said nothing in her letter about it, nor had she
mentioned the sum of money which she had placed to Doris’s account in a
Hamilton bank. Doris had not yet been able to return the seventy-five
dollars she had drawn of the five hundred Leslie had placed in bank to
her credit. She was resolved on doing so before the close of college in
June. Selfishly indifferent and indifferently selfish though she was she
had a certain standard of honor. She had not ceased to regret having
allowed Leslie to bank the five hundred dollars to her account.
Doris was not so anxious to return the Dazzler to Leslie. True she had
no expectation of keeping it indefinitely. She hoped, however, that
Leslie would allow her to use it until the close of college. She was
able to pay for its up-keep from her allowance. Though she cared little
for the freshies and sophs who made much of her, she frequently took one
or more of them with her on her drives in the white car. Secretly she
preferred her own company to theirs. She regarded them as more or less
“silly” and continued to accept their adoration with bored sweetness.
Unwillingly she had discovered in herself a growing interest for the
Travelers. Her keen perception could not fail to show her their
undeniable claim to originality and cleverness. She admired, even liked
Muriel, to whom she had, however, not spoken since before Christmas.
Before their misunderstanding she had been on the verge of real fondness
for Muriel. She now missed their former pleasant relation as roommates.
At times she was tempted to lay aside her grievance and try to restore
the old friendly footing.
Leila had approached Doris at the psychological moment. Doris was weary
of being rushed by those for whom she entertained hardly more than
casual interest. She had not the diversion of Leslie Cairns’
companionship. She had persistently turned “dig” to the extent of
putting herself beyond the immediate fear of a condition in mathematics.
She was therefore ready to entertain with secret pleasure Leila’s polite
request for her appearance in “The Knight of the Northern Sun.” She was
actually eager to take the part of Nageda, the Norseland princess.
Outwardly she showed herself as coolly business-like as Leila during
their brief interview. After she and Leila had separated she experienced
a half sad regret because she appeared to be so thoroughly “out of it”
with clever Miss Harper. She was sure Miss Harper cared nothing about
her personally. She merely regarded her as a student; one best suited to
play the part of Nageda.
“The Knight of the Northern Sun” was to be given on the evening of April
thirtieth. It would be presented at least three weeks in advance of
Leila’s Irish play. The Candace Oliver musicale was to take place on the
evening of April fourth. On the night of April eleventh Leila’s “great
idea” would furnish the entire college body of students with an
evening’s fun.
Such was the program the Travelers drew up. After the meeting came the
usual spread, eaten in high spirits. Marjorie, Robin and Jerry stole
downstairs several minutes after inexorable old ten-thirty had shrilled
its loud emphatic nightly command for retiring. Very quietly the trio
let themselves out the front door into the moonlight.
Marjorie and Jerry gallantly offered themselves as Robin’s escorts
across the moonlit campus to Silverton Hall. They took hold of her arms
and paraded her between them, expatiating to her as they rushed her
along at a hiking stride, on the value of their company. In front of
Silverton Hall they lingered briefly for a last animated exchange of
laughing pleasantries, then Jerry and Marjorie turned their steps toward
the entrance at the east end of the campus which gave on the pike toward
Hamilton Estates.
“It seems strange to be walking out of the campus gates at this time of
night.” Marjorie made this light observation as the two Travelers
stepped from the college premises and out upon Hamilton Pike.
“We’re enchanted, you know. We broke the spell for a little while this
evening. There’s the enchanted trail back to the good fairy’s castle.”
Jerry pointed to the pike, shining and white under the moon’s clear,
burning lamp. “That’s the way I’ve felt most of the time since we
settled ourselves at the Arms.”
“So have I. It’s not only Hamilton Arms that seems enchanted. Hamilton
Estates is like a fairy-tale kingdom,” Marjorie added to Jerry’s fancy.
“The Kingdom of Castles,” Jerry instantly supplied. “And in the heart of
the kingdom dwelt Goldendede, a fairy empress.”
As they continued on their way to the Arms the pair amused themselves
with the weaving of a fairy tale about Miss Susanna, Hamilton Estates
and themselves as willing victims of enchantment.
“Bing! that nearly shattered the enchantment,” grumbled Jerry as an
automobile whisked past them from the direction in which they had come.
“There’s nothing fairy-like about a buzz-buggy. That particular one
butted into our fairy tale and reu-ined it.”
“Never mind. You’ve been truly inspired since we left the campus
tonight, Jeremiah,” Marjorie consoled. “Goldendede is a beautiful name
for Miss Susanna. The Kingdom of Castles exactly suits Hamilton Estates.
You couldn’t have named this aloof collection of turreted gabled houses
better.”
“That’s higher commendation than you ever gave the Bean Jingles. It
makes up for your sad lack of appreciation of those gems. I am _so_
mollified, Bean!” Jerry fairly purred gratification.
“I’d appreciate your art of jingling more, Jeremiah, if it were
addressed to someone else. Leila or Ronny or Vera Jingles would be less
personal.”
“You have a grudge against your charming self, Bean,” was Jerry’s
retort. “Forget it. Brooke Hamilton is to be celebrated in biography,
why shouldn’t Marjorie Dean be celebrated in verse. The first is not
greater than the last in her own little way. The—”
“Say another word like that and I’ll run off and leave you in the
enchanted dark.” Marjorie placed a light hand over Jerry’s lips.
Jerry gently removed the restraining fingers and gave them a friendly
squeeze. She kept Marjorie’s hand in hers and the two walked on, arms
swinging. “You’re a resplendent goose,” she said, “but you win. At least
you do until the next time.”
“Jerry, did you notice Miss Susanna’s face today as she stood on the
veranda waving to us?” Marjorie changed the subject with abruptness. “It
was transfigured!”
“I noticed. I thought then that there could not be anything quite so
wonderful as the return of happiness to a person who had been shut away
from happiness as long as she had.” Jerry turned suddenly serious. “And
you began it, Marvelous Manager. You were the leaven—”
Marjorie dropped Jerry’s hand and flashed away from her along the pike,
a slim, flitting, shadowy figure. She was laughing softly to herself as
she ran on for a few yards.
“I told you I’d run away from you.” she reminded, as Jerry came speeding
up to her. “I didn’t propose to stay after hearing myself compared to a
yeast cake.”
The two had paused, breathless and laughing at one side of the pike.
Their run had brought them just beyond the brightly lighted gate posts
of Lenox Heath, a rambling, many gabled English manor house. Its
powerful gate lights illuminated the pike for several hundred feet.
Farther ahead of them it was dark and shadowy, in spite of the full
moon’s rays.
A few more steps would bring them to the part of the highway which
skirted the Carden estate, forming its southern boundary. Formerly the
pike at this point had extended between irregular embankments of stony
earth which rose to a low height above the pike’s smooth bed. It was at
this particular part of the pike that Miss Susanna had narrowly escaped
being run over by Lillian Walbert’s car on a February afternoon of the
previous year.
During the summer which followed the date of Miss Susanna’s near
accident, the right side of the pike which marked the northern boundary
of the Clements estate had been leveled with the road bed by order of
the Clements themselves. The low lumpy irregular ridge on the Carden
side of the pike remained, flaunting itself in the face of improvement,
a proof of Carden indifference and obstinacy. Because of it the Carden
house and grounds appeared even more neglected and unkempt.
“It’s good and dark here in spite of the moon.” Jerry glanced up at the
great arching limbs of the trees on the Carden side of the pike. A row
of giant elms grew just inside the thick evergreen hedge which enclosed
the Carden premises and gave the estate its name. Though still bare of
leaves, the thick interlacing branches of the elms served as a screen
against the moon’s pale radiance.
“What a gloomy old dump the Carden estate is!” was Jerry’s disapproving
exclamation. “It looks like a ghost ranch.”
“It’s the Dark Tower in the Kingdom of Castles.” This time Marjorie did
the naming. “‘Two Travelers to the Dark Tower came,’” she laughingly
misquoted.
“Let’s hope we don’t see the horrors Childe Roland was supposed to have
seen. Goodness knows _what_ bogie horrified him. I should call ‘Childe
Roland’ Browning’s most aggravating poem. But this eerie spot is no
place for a literary discussion. B-r-r-r! Let’s beat it. I saw a white
ghostly light flash out from behind that old house!”
Jerry did not accept her own proposal. Instead she stopped short, eyes
trained on the pale flood of light. It emanated from a point behind the
house and whitened a space to the left of the gloomy gray stone
dwelling.
“Here comes your ghost, and in an automobile.” Marjorie began to laugh.
Two white eyes of light had appeared around the left hand corner of the
house and were rapidly coming down the drive toward the watchers. “‘Two
goslings to the Dark Tower came—and saw a gasoline ghost,’” she mocked.
The watchers came abreast of the entrance gateway of the estate just as
the car reached it. By its light they saw that the gates stood open.
They hurried past them and drew close to the uneven ridge of earth in
order to allow the automobile plenty of room to turn onto the pike.
Instead of driving on, the solitary occupant stopped the machine at the
edge of the pike just clear of the gateway.
The machine itself was a long, rakish-looking racing car. Its driver was
a tall man, very broad of shoulder. He wore a long dark motor coat. A
leather motor cap was pulled down over his forehead. Intent on his own
affairs, he did not glance toward the two young women. He sprang from
the racer and strode back to close the gates. He slammed them shut with
an air which indicated proprietorship. Two or three long steps and he
had returned to his car. He leaped into it, started it and was gone
almost instantly around the curve of the pike which was the last outpost
of the Carden estate. Just on the other side of it the estate of
Hamilton Arms began.
“_Some ghost._ That’s the first time I ever saw anyone emerge from that
gloom patch, day or night. Now who do you suppose he was? If he’s a
visitor at Carden Hedge he must be visiting either himself or spooks.
Maybe he’s a Carden. Not that I care a hoot who he is, but one must have
something to say about everyone.” Jerry left the rough ground on which
the two had been standing for the smoothness of the pike. “Come along,
Bean. It will be midnight before we hit the castle,” she predicted.
“Ronny was right about this pair of Travelers.”
“I wonder if he was one of the Cardens?” Marjorie’s question contained a
certain amount of curiosity. Since she had taken up the work of
arranging the data for Brooke Hamilton’s biography she had found enough
allusions to the Carden family to give her a clear idea of what a thorn
Alec Carden had been to Brooke Hamilton’s flesh.
“He may be the son of Alec Carden. I mean the son who inherited Carden
Hedge,” she continued musingly. “This man in the racer wasn’t young. I
caught a fair view of his face in spite of the way he had his cap pulled
down. Still he may be younger than I thought him at a glance, and the
grandson of old Alec Carden.”
“Why worry about it?” teased Jerry. She had caught the note of puzzled
interest in Marjorie’s voice.
“I’m not worrying. I’m wondering why that man’s face looked so familiar.
I’m sure I never saw him before.”
“How can he look familiar to you if you’ve never before seen him?”
inquired Jerry, with a chuckle.
“That’s precisely what I’m wondering. Perhaps he resembles some one I
know or have seen. I must ask Miss Susanna to describe John Carden, the
son who lives at the Hedge. Here we are at our own castle. Next time we
mustn’t stay out so late, Jeremiah. I hope Miss Susanna hasn’t stayed up
to wait for us. She likes her early bedtime, you know.”
Miss Susanna had elected to “stay up” to hear about Leila’s “great”
idea. They found her waiting for them in the library, wrapped in a
trailing blue velvet dressing gown. She hustled them upstairs to don
negligees and ordered them down to the library when they should have
changed costume. There she brought them two little Chinese bowls of
chicken consommé and a plate of salty crackers.
Both girls had eaten sparingly of the spread. After their moonlight walk
they were really hungry, and the consommé was delicious. As they ate it
and nibbled the crisp crackers they regaled Miss Susanna with a lively
account of the evening’s happenings. Interest in the Travelers’ new
plans for entertainments drove the incident of the unknown motorist
completely from Marjorie’s mind. Nor did she think of him again for some
time afterward.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VIII.
A RETURN TO A FORBIDDEN LAND
“Leslie, is it really you? I’d been wondering why you hadn’t answered my
letter. I wrote you soon after I received your note.” Doris Monroe’s
indifferent drawl was not in evidence as she answered the telephone. She
was surprised and more pleased than she had thought she could possibly
be to hear Leslie Cairns’ voice on the wire. Leslie’s arrival in
Hamilton meant an immediate brightening of the bored existence Doris had
been leading since her return from New York.
“I wrote you I’d surely be here in April,” Leslie brusquely reminded,
“and here I am.”
“I’m _awfully_ glad of it.” Doris spoke with pleasing sincerity. “Is
Mrs. Gaylord with you?”
“Ye-es.” Leslie drawled the affirmation with exaggerated weariness. “How
she does wish she wasn’t. She nearly had a conniption when I told her we
were going to make a flying trip to Hamilton. I’ll meet you at the
Colonial at four this P. M. You’ll hear more of my history then. Bye.”
Leslie was gone.
Doris’s beautiful face was a study as she turned from the telephone. She
was a trifle amazed at her distinct pleasure in Leslie’s unexpected
arrival at Hamilton. Leslie had been so moodily unbearable after their
return from the holiday vacation which they had spent in New York, Doris
had felt relieved at the former’s sudden disappearance from Hamilton and
the subsequent receipt of Leslie’s brief note from New York.
It was only recently that she had begun to miss Leslie and wish for her
society. In spite of her ugly moods Leslie was possessed of an
originality which Doris found singularly enlivening. No one could say
more oddly funny things than Leslie when she chose to be humorous.
Leslie never hesitated to pay extravagantly for whatever she happened to
want. Doris admired in her what she considered Leslie’s “adventurous
spirit.” She had been brought up to know her father’s explorer friends.
They were hardy, intrepid world wanderers of daring. She had listened to
their tales of reckless adventuring into the unknown and gloried in the
doings of these splendid captains of adventure. There were occasions
when it appeared to her that Leslie showed something of the same
adventurous, undaunted spirit.
As a matter of truth, Leslie was animated by this very spirit. She had
directed it, however, into ignoble channels. What she chose to regard as
strategy and daring were nothing other than trickery and lawlessness.
Doris knew little or nothing of Leslie’s flagrant offenses as a student
at Hamilton College. She had learned of the latter’s expellment from
college from Leslie herself. She had consequently never heard the rights
of the affair. She had heard vague stories concerning it from Julia
Peyton, Clara Carter and one or two juniors. The knowledge of Leslie’s
immense wealth had hampered even their gossip about the ex-student. The
freshmen and the sophomores, who were Doris’s chief companions, had
entered Hamilton too late to be on the campus at the period before
Leslie’s and her chums’ expulsion from college. They, therefore, knew
not much about her.
The present junior and senior classes had been respectively the freshman
and sophomore classes during Leslie’s senior year at Hamilton, which had
been also the year of her expulsion from college. At that particular
time the attitude of the two lower classes had been one of horrified
disapproval of the seventeen San Soucians who had been expelled from
Hamliton for hazing a student. That was almost as much as any of them
had ever learned about the affair. The girls who knew the disagreeable
truth were Marjorie Dean and her intimates. Silence with them was honor.
They knew a great many other derogatory facts about Leslie Cairns and
her methods which they kept strictly sub rosa.
Doris was ready to welcome Leslie with warmth. She sorely lacked
companions of interest. She had begun to grow bored to satiety by
admiration. The freshies’ and sophs’ adoration for her was too
superficial to be satisfying. They enjoyed rushing the college beauty.
Each class liked to parade her on the campus and fête her at Baretti’s,
the Colonial or at their pet Hamilton tea shops as a triumphant class
trophy. She was selfish, but not shallow; indifferent, but not vapid. It
was in her composition to give as well as receive. Because she had been
surfeited with adulation she had lately experienced a vague unrestful
desire to turn from the knowledge of her own charms to an admiration of
some one else.
First among the students of Hamilton she admired Leila Harper. Robin
Page was her second “crush.” Muriel made a third in a trio which had won
her difficult fancy. None of these, however, were likely to become her
friends. She would never make overtures to them. She was confident that
they would never make further friendly advances to her.
Such a state of mind on her part augured a hearty welcome for Leslie.
Doris hurried to her room after her last afternoon class, hastily got
into the new fawn English walking suit, recently arrived from a Bond
Street shop, and made a buoyant exit from the Hall and to the garage for
the white car. It was a clear, sunshiny day. She thought Leslie might
like to take a ride in the Dazzler. Leslie had probably hired a taxicab
in which to come from town to the Colonial.
It was a very short distance from the garage to the Colonial. Arrived
there, Doris saw a solitary car parked in front of the restaurant. It
was a black roadster of newest type and most expensive make. She jumped
to an instant conclusion that it must belong to Leslie.
Doris parked the Dazzler behind the roadster and went into the tea room
to meet Leslie. She found her seated at one of the several square
mission oak tables engaged in a languid perusal of a menu card.
“How are you, Goldie? Have a seat at the table and a bite with yours
truly.” Leslie waved Doris into the chair opposite her. Then she
stretched an arm lazily across the table and offered Doris her hand.
“Very well, thank you, Leslie. How have you been getting along?” Doris
returned, with only a shade of her usual drawl. “I _am_ glad to see you.
I have missed you.”
“A good miss.” Leslie shrugged an accompaniment to her laconic comment.
“Were you surprised to hear me on the ’phone?”
“Of course. I was surprised when you wrote me from New York. I had no
idea you had left Hamilton. I was afraid of being conditioned in math. I
was studying like mad and hadn’t time just then to call you on the
telephone at the hotel. I knew you were very busy.” So far as she went
Doris was truthful.
“Oh, forget it. I believe what you say, Goldie, but you might have added
that you were all fed up with me. I know I had a beastly grouch after
the New York trip. It had teeth and claws. I had business trouble. That
sneaking carpenter who is trying to swing the dormitory job for Bean and
her precious Beanstalks coaxed all my men over to the Beggar Ranch. He
told them a lot of fairy stories, I suppose. Anyway, I had to send for
one of my father’s best men, an Italian financier, who understands
Italian peasants. Even he couldn’t undo the mischief that scamp, Graham,
had done.
“I finally had to send for my father. He fired the whole shooting match.
I’m done with that garage flivver. My father said it wouldn’t pay me
very well in the end. He was sore at me for wasting my time around this
burg. He tried to make me promise I’d go to New York and never think
about Hamilton again. He can’t stand the college since the precious
Board gave me such an unfair deal.”
“Why, that’s dreadful, Leslie; about your garage I mean.” Doris had a
certain amount of sympathy for Leslie. She was not specially interested
in business, but she decided that Leslie had been badly treated.
“I’ll say it is,” Leslie made grim response. “Oh, never mind. I’m still
worth a few dollars. Did you see my new car out in front?”
“Yes—I had an idea that car must belong to you. It suggested you to me
at first sight.” Doris smiled across the table at her returned friend.
“I had no idea you’d have a car. I brought the Dazzler on purpose. I
thought we might like to take a ride.”
“Gaylord and I came here from New York in that car,” Leslie informed
with an inflection of pride. “My father doesn’t know I’m here. He sailed
for Europe last Thursday. I know positively that he went, too. I was at
the dock and saw his steamer cut loose from Manhattan.”
“Were you?” Doris exhibited her usual polite reticence regarding
Leslie’s father. Long since she had discovered that Leslie did not like
to answer questions about him. “It is rather a long drive from New York,
isn’t it. Your motor coat and hat are chic.”
“So is your suit. I suppose it floated straight across the pond to you.
My coat came from the Clayham, in New York. But it’s some bang-up
English shop, now let me tell you.” Leslie showed brightening
satisfaction of her own greenish-gray motor coat and round hat of the
same material.
Leslie’s own remarks about her father were “fairy stories” so far as her
having seen him entered into them. She had not seen him, nor had she
received any letters from him other than the peremptory one in which he
had scathingly reprimanded her and ordered her to New York. Nevertheless
she _had_ seen him sail for Europe in the “_Arcadia_,” though he had not
known of her presence on the dock when the steamer cleared.
She had gone to the dock in a cheap tan rain-coat, a red worsted Tam
o’Shanter cap and a pair of shell-rimmed glasses. Mingling with the
crowd on the dock she was confident her disguise was effective. Her
father’s manager, Mr. Carrington, had furnished her with the information
of the date and hour of her father’s departure for Europe. She had not
seen him since the day when she had called at her father’s offices.
Neither had he seen her father for more than a few minutes at a time
during which no mention of Leslie had been made. He had been led by her
to believe that she had planned a pleasant steamer surprise for her
father. He had therefore kept his own counsel and his promise to Leslie.
He had sent her a note to the Essenden which had been duly forwarded to
her new address.
“I should think you’d rather be in New York than here.” Doris gave a
half envious sigh. “There’s nothing here of interest off the campus.”
“Oh, I had to come here while Peter the Great was away.” Leslie
volunteered this much of an explanation of her visit. “I must get a line
on what was done on the garage so I’ll know just how much money I put
into it. My father will want to know that right off the bat if he offers
it for sale as it stands. You and I will have some bully rides and
drives while I’m here, Goldie. I shan’t be such a grouch as I was right
after Christmas. How are things at the knowledge shop? How is Bean? Had
any fusses with her or her Beanstalks lately?” Leslie’s expression grew
lowering as she mentioned Marjorie.
“Miss Dean and Miss Macy aren’t at Wayland Hall now. They’re staying at
Hamilton Arms. I don’t know whether they are coming back to the Hall
again or not.” Doris had expected the information might elicit surprise
from her companion. She smiled in faint amusement of Leslie’s astonished
features, then added the crowning bit of news. “Miss Dean was chosen by
Miss Hamilton to write Brooke Hamilton’s biography.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER IX.
A WILD PLAN
“What-t? Do you know what you’re saying?” Leslie’s tones rose higher.
“I ought to know. I’ve heard nothing else since she left the Hall for
Hamilton Arms.” Doris’s tone was the acme of weariness. “It wouldn’t
have been surprising to hear that President Matthews had been asked to
write Brooke Hamilton’s biography,” she continued. “The idea of _Miss
Dean_ as his biographer is, well—_ridiculous_.”
“It’s pure bosh,” Leslie said contemptuously. “She’s a tricky little
hypocrite. She’s managed to curry favor with that wizened old frump at
Hamilton Arms. The last of the Hamiltons! She looks it. I heard when I
was at Hamilton that she was sore at the college; that she had all the
dope for Brooke Hamilton’s biography but wouldn’t come across with it. I
presume Bean slathered her with deceitful sweetness until she grew dizzy
with her own importance and renigged.”
“I don’t like Miss Dean.” Doris’s fair face clouded. “I’m glad she’s not
at the Hall any longer. Miss Harper and her other friends don’t appear
to miss her much, or Miss Macy either. They have parties in one
another’s rooms almost every night.”
“They have found they can live without her,” was Leslie’s satiric
opinion. “You certainly have handed me news, Goldie.”
“Oh, that’s only a beginning,” Doris declared, well pleased with
Leslie’s appreciation. “The other night Miss Dean and Miss Macy were at
the Hall to dinner. Afterward they were in Miss Harper’s room with their
crowd. They had a high old time talking and laughing. I could hear them,
but not very plainly. They were planning shows, though. Since then a
notice for a piano recital, featuring Candace Oliver, a freshie musical
genius, has appeared on all the bulletin boards. Since that notice there
has come another of an Irish play by Miss Harper. It’s to be given in
May. The name of the play and the cast hasn’t yet been announced. Miss
Harper is awfully tantalizing. She always waits until campus curiosity
is at fever height about her plays before she gives out any more
information.”
“She’s a foxy proposition.” Leslie showed signs of growing sulkiness.
Her earlier affability had begun to wane at first mention of Marjorie
Dean. Next to Marjorie, Leila Harper was registered in her black books.
“She’s clever, Leslie; not foxy,” Doris calmly corrected. She went on to
tell Leslie of the part Leila had asked her to play in “The Knight of
the Northern Sun.”
Leslie’s deep-rooted jealousy of the two girls who were college
successes where she had been a rank failure rushed to the surface.
“Leila Harper has nerve to ask you to be in a play when she knows you
are a friend of mine. I see her game. She knows just how useful you can
be to her in her confounded old play. It’s some feather in her theatre
bonnet to keep the college beauty at her beck and call. She has planned
to break up our friendship by flattering you into believing you are a
dramatic wonder. Bean is probably back of Harper’s scheme. She can’t and
never could bear to see me enjoy myself.”
Leslie jerked out the final sentence of her tirade against Leila with
angry force. Her face had darkened in the jealous way which invariably
reminded Doris of the driving of thunder clouds across a graying sky.
“Miss Harper was impersonal in asking me to be in the play,” Doris
defended. The sea shell pink in her cheeks had deepened perceptibly.
“She dislikes me. I know she wants me in the cast because she thinks I’d
be a feature. You see I’m the true Norse type. The heroine of the play
is a Norse princess. I want to be in the play because I like to be in
things. I’ll enjoy the praise and the excitement. I may go on the
English stage when I have been graduated from Hamilton. My father would
not object if I were to play in a high class London company.”
“The same old Goldie who cares for nobody but herself.” Leslie gave vent
to a sarcastic little snicker. “Why not take up with Bean, too?”
“Oh, Leslie, don’t be hateful,” Doris said with an air of resigned
patience. “You know I detest Miss Dean. Nothing could induce me to take
up with her. It’s different with Miss Harper. She’s not American, you
know. She is so cosmopolitan in manner. She is really more my own style.
But, of course, she’s hopelessly devoted to that Sanford crowd of
girls.”
“Don’t mention Sanford to me. I hate the name of that collection of
one-story huts,” Leslie exploded fiercely. “You ought to detest Bean,
considering the way she has treated me. If she had been half as square
as she pretends to be she would have put the kibosh on old Graham, just
like that, when he began hiring my men away from my architects. My
father said the whole business was a disgrace. He said there was no use
in my trying to buck against an institution. That’s what Bean’s pull
amounts to. She has both Prexy and that ancient Hamilton relict to back
her.”
“If Miss Dean knew that her architect was hiring your men away from your
architects, and ignored the fact for her own business interests then she
must be thoroughly dishonorable,” Doris said flatly.
“If—if—There you go,” sputtered Leslie, wagging her head, her shaggy
eye-brows drawn together. “No ‘if’ about it. She knew. You talk as
though you wanted to believe her honorable. Well, she isn’t, never was;
never will be. It makes me furious to think that she should go nipping
around the campus as a college arc light while I wasn’t even allowed a
look at a sheepskin. Too bad I couldn’t have learned some of her pretty
little dodges. I’d have been able to slide out of the hazing racket.
I’ll tell you something you don’t know. Bean could have helped us when
the Board sent for her by refusing to go to Hamilton Hall to the
inquiry. Not Bean. She went, and made such a fuss about pretending she
didn’t care to talk that it made us appear ten times as much to blame as
we really were.”
“If—” Doris hastily checked herself. “She seems to have tried her best
to down you, Leslie. But, why?” Her green eyes directed themselves upon
Leslie with a disconcerting steadiness.
Leslie gave a short laugh. “I used to ask myself that,” she replied with
a sarcastic straightening of her lips. “Now I understand her better. She
was jealous and wanted to be the whole show, all the time. She is deep
as a well. Take my word for it. I know her better than I wish I knew
her.” She shook her head with slow effective regret.
“I’ll surely remember what you’ve said about her.” Doris meant what she
said. She had been distinctly shocked at both instances which Leslie had
cited of Marjorie Dean’s treachery. What she desired most now was that
Leslie should drop the discussion of her grievances.
This Leslie was not ready to do. She continued on the depressing topic
for several more minutes. Then she began asking Doris questions
concerning the subject of Brooke Hamilton’s biography. Doris knew only
what she had already imparted to Leslie concerning it.
“None of the students know the details concerning it except Miss—I mean,
the Travelers,” she finally said desperately. She stopped short of
mentioning Marjorie’s name again. She did not care to start Leslie anew.
“I imagine there really isn’t much else to know besides what I’ve
already told you.”
“Don’t you ever believe it,” was the skeptical retort. “But I don’t
blame you, Goldie, for what you don’t know.”
“Thank you.” Doris shrugged satiric gratitude. Glad to turn the
conversation into a lighter strain she continued gaily: “We’re soon
going to have a general lark on the campus. The whole college crowd is
to be in it. It’s to be a ‘Rustic Romp.’ One-half of the girls are to
dress up as country maids; the other half as country swains. In order to
be sure of an even number of couples each student has to register her
choice as maid or swain. If not enough girls register as swains then
some of the maids will have to change their minds and do duty as
gallants. Miss Evans, a rather nice senior, has charge of the
registration. And it’s to be a masquerade!” Doris’s exclamation
contained pleased anticipation.
“Wonderful.” Leslie chose to be derisive. Underneath envious interest
prompted her to ask; “Whose fond, fertile flight of foolishness was
that? Mickie Harper’s or Pudge and Beans?”
“I don’t know whose inspiration it was. Probably the seniors had the
most to do with it.” Doris again steered the talk toward peaceful
channels.
“Hm-m.” Leslie glanced at Doris, then at the luncheon which the waitress
was now placing before them on the table. She gazed abstractedly at the
appetizing repast. Her eyes traveled slowly back to Doris. Suddenly she
broke into one of her fits of silent, hob-goblin merriment. “I think
I’ll attend that hayseed carnival myself,” she announced in a tone of
defiant boldness.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER X.
CLAIMING A PROMISE
“What do you mean?” Slightly mystified for an instant it then broke upon
Doris that Leslie was in earnest. She was actually entertaining a wild
idea of attending the coming romp behind the shelter of a mask. “You
couldn’t do that—er—it would be—unwise,” she stammered. Dismay flashed
into her green eyes.
“Why couldn’t I?” The question vibrated with obstinacy. “Who except you
would know me?”
“U-m-m; no one would know you while you were masked, I suppose. When it
came time to unmask—”
“I’d not be in the gym at unmasking time,” Leslie interrupted
decisively. “I’d be out of that barn and away before the signal came to
unmask.”
Doris eyed Leslie doubtfully. Her first shock of dismay at the
announcement had subsided. She was still swayed by caution as she said
slowly: “It would be awfully risky for you. At the Valentine masquerade
no one knew when the call to unmask was coming. That’s the way it will
be at the romp.”
“At the Valentine masquerade when _I_ was at Hamilton the time for
unmasking was nine-thirty.” The corners of Leslie’s wide mouth took on
an ugly droop.
“I know that is the way it used to be,” Doris hastily re-assured. “At
the last masquerade the freshies asked the junior committee to make the
unmasking time a surprise. It proved to be a lot of fun. It will be done
again this time. I’m almost sure it will.”
“What if it should be? Don’t imagine that I can’t watch my step. I’d not
be caught.”
“Suppose you were dancing when the call to unmask came? You’d have to
leave your partner instantly and run like a deer for the door. Suppose
you were caught on the way to the door and unmasked by a crowd of girls?
The freshies are terrors at that sort of thing. They are always out for
tom-boy fun. You’d not care to have such an embarrassing thing happen to
you.” Doris chose to present to Leslie a plain supposition of what might
happen to her as an uninvited masker at the romp.
“Leave it to me to make a clever get-away,” was Leslie’s boast. “I’d be
safe for five or six dances. That would be as long as I’d care to stay
in the gym. It’s wearing a hayrick costume that strikes me as having
some pep to it. The adventure of breaking into the knowledge shop and
enjoying myself under the noses of Prigville, without any of the
inhabitants knowing who I am, appeals to me.”
Unwittingly she had appealed to the side of Doris most in sympathy with
her bold plan. Doris had been born and bred to understanding and
approval of adventure. “I understand the way you feel about it, Leslie,”
she began. “If I were certain that—”
“Oh, forget that I mentioned dressing up to you!” Leslie exclaimed with
savage impatience. “You’ve said more than once that you’d be pleased to
do anything you could for me, _at any time_. I thought you would help me
a little to play this joke on Prigville. Never mind. I’ll ask only one
thing of you. If you _should_ happen to recognize me on the night of the
haytime hobble, kindly don’t publish it among the prigs.”
“Leslie.” Doris put dignified reproach into the response. “You know I
would never betray you. I’m perfectly willing to help you carry out your
plan, provided there’s no danger to either of us in it.”
“Danger of what?” came the sarcastic question. “No danger to you. Let me
do a little supposing. Suppose we went together to the gym; you as a
maid, and I as your swain. Suppose I failed to make a get-away and was
unmasked by a bunch of smart Alecs. I’d probably not be near you when
the signal came to unmask. I’d not bother you after the grand march.
There’d be so many hey Rubes in the gym no one would remember our coming
in together. That lets you out, doesn’t it? You should falter. Have a
heart, Goldie!” Leslie had grown satirically persuasive.
Doris sat studying the situation in silence. She had colored afresh at
Leslie’s pointed inference that she was more concerned for her own
security from possible mishap at the romp than for that of Leslie
herself. She hated the sarcastic reminder flung at her by Leslie that
she had promised a favor on demand and was now not willing to keep her
word. As Leslie had presented the situation to her there could be no
risk to her. Leslie was more than able to look out for her own
interests. To help Leslie now meant not only the keeping of her promise.
It was a singularly easy way of keeping it.
“I’d rather you’d turn me down now than next year,” Leslie sneered as
Doris continued silent.
“I’ll help you, Leslie.” Doris spoke stiffly, ignoring her disgruntled
companion’s sneer.
“Come again.” Leslie cupped an ear with her hand, mockery in the
gesture, but triumph in her small dark eyes.
“I said I would help you.” Doris repeated her first statement in an even
stiffer tone. She would not permit Leslie to break down her poise.
“Good for you. You won’t be sorry. Help me to put over this stunt on
Prigville and I’ll give you the Dazzler for your own.” Leslie was
buoyantly generous in her delight at having gained her own way.
“I don’t want any such reward. That’s just the trouble with you, Leslie.
You are always offering me so much more than I can ever return. I wish
you were going to the dance, to stay all evening and have a good time
with the others.” Doris sincerely meant the wish.
“You know whose fault it is that I can’t.” Leslie shrugged
significantly. “Now I must plan my costume.” She straightened in her
chair with a faint sigh. “I’ll sport blue overalls, a brown and red
gingham shirt, large plaid, with no collar; a turkey-red cotton hankie,
a big floppy hayseed hat and a striped umbrella.” She chuckled as she
enumerated these items of costume.
“I had thought seriously of going as a swain, but decided against it.
I’d rather look pretty. I have a certain reputation to keep up on the
campus. I’d prefer not to caricature myself.”
“You make me smile, Goldie. How you worship that precious beauty
reputation of yours! You may be right about it. I presume you are.”
Leslie’s rugged face grew momentarily downcast. She was thinking
morosely that if, like Doris, she had been half as careful in whom she
trusted and to what risks she lent herself when at Hamilton she might
have escaped disgrace.
“I know I am.” Doris was emphatical. She noted the gloomy change in
Leslie’s features and understood partly what had occasioned it. Those
four words, “I presume you are,” made more impression on Doris than any
other reference to her college trouble or against Marjorie Dean, which
she had ever before heard Leslie make. It held a compelling, resigned
inference of unfair treatment at the hands of others. Those others were
of course Miss Dean and her friends. Doris allowed herself to jump to
that conclusion. She had fostered jealous disdain of Marjorie until it
had become antipathy. She knew Leslie’s faults, but she chose to
overlook them. She had sometimes regarded Leslie’s accusations against
“Bean” as overdrawn. Now she felt more in sympathy with Leslie’s
standing grudge against Marjorie Dean than at any time since she had
known Leslie.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XI.
A RUSTIC DISASTER
The evening of April eleventh saw Hamilton campus in the possession of a
social throng, large, rural and hilarious. The spring twilight was
scarcely ready to drop faint lavender shades over departed day when from
the various student houses on the big green issued veritable country
bumpkins in festival attire. They appeared singly, in twos, threes,
quartettes and straggling groups.
Fortunately for the rovingly-inclined bands of rural pleasure-seekers
the night was warm and balmy. In the mild fragrant spring air, the
giggling maids flaunted their bright calicos and ginghams, unhidden in
their cotton glory by shawl, coat or cape.
The gallant swains who dotingly accompanied the flower-hatted or
sun-bonneted, aproned ladies were a sturdy, rugged-looking lot in their
blue or brown overalls, flannel or gingham shirts, brilliant cotton neck
handkerchiefs and wide-brimmed straw field hats or weather-stained
sombreros. A few ambitious rustic youths had appeared in their own fond
weird conception of party attire. They were amazing and wonderful to
behold.
“These happy hecks at Hamilton certainly have small feet,” remarked a
stocky rustic in a faded pink gingham shirt, a blue and white checked
overall, broad, square-toed low shoes, a bright green neckerchief and a
narrow-rimmed, round straw hat with a hole in the crown through which a
lock of brown hair appeared, standing straight up. The accompanying mask
was a round false face with very red cheeks and high arching brows.
“Well, they can’t help it. If they hide ’em with brogans how can they
dance with the lady hecks?” demanded a tall bumpkin in what he was now
proudly exhibiting on the campus as “my horse clothes.”
“Te, he he,” giggled the stocky rustic. “Truly, Muriel Harding, I never
saw you look so funny before in all my life.”
“Sh-h-h, Jeremiah. I don’t know how you knew me. Since you do, keep it
dark. Some horse clothes! Have one of my cards.” Muriel handed Jerry a
correspondence card in a violent shade of pink. In the center of it was
written: “Horsefield Hanks, Jockey and Post Master, Jayville.”
Jerry continued to giggle at Horsefield Hanks’ gala adornment. It
consisted of a bright blue flannel shirt, a broad red leather belt,
baggy brown trousers tucked into a pair of boot-modeled goloshes, a
rusty black cutaway coat and a red and white striped jockey cap with a
wide front peak. The mask was a false face of particularly ferocious
expression. To look at Horsefield Hanks was not only to laugh. It was a
signal to keep on laughing.
“Where is Marjorie?” Muriel inquired as she turned from bending a
killing glance upon two hurrying maids, evidently intent on joining
their swains. The two called a mirthful: “Hello, sweetness. Where did
your face grow?” and whisked on their way.
“Gone over to the Hall to meet Robin. She has on a fine check yellow and
white gingham dress trimmed with little yellow ruffles, white stockings
and slippers and a white ruffled organdie hat with long yellow ribbon
strings.”
“I’ll certainly know her if I see her. Vera is too cute for words. She
has two overalls on, one over the other, to make her look fat. They’re
blue and her blouse is white. She has a black alpaca coat on, too. She
managed to get hold of a funny little pair of copper-toed boots. She has
built them up inside until she is at least three inches taller. She
won’t be easily recognized.” Muriel rattled off the description in a low
laughing voice. “Ronny has on a pale blue calico. It comes down to her
heels. She has black slippers and stockings, a ruffled blue sunbonnet
and a white kerchief folded across her shoulders. Lucy’s dressed in the
same style except her dress is lavender. Leila is a maid, but I haven’t
been able to pick her out yet. Now how in the world did you know that I
was I?” Muriel demanded.
“I knew the most ridiculous costume I saw would be yours,” chuckled
Jerry. “You’re so funny, you’re positively idiotic.”
“Then I’m likely to win the prize for having the funniest costume. Won’t
that be nice? Come on, Hayfoot, that’s what you look like. Let’s go out
in the world and hunt up Strawfoot. I presume we’ll be mobbed before
we’ve gone far for not having our rustic maids along with us. Anyhow
let’s brave the jays and jayesses as long as we can.” Muriel politely
offered Jerry an arm. “I’m to meet Candace Oliver at seven-thirty at the
Bean holder. I’m a gentleman jockey of leisure until then. The post
office was closed early today. Jayville will have to wait for its mail.”
The gallant pair had not proceeded fifty feet from their reconnoitering
place before they were surrounded by a crowd of swains and maids and
rushed over the green as prisoners to be apportioned to the first two
swainless maids the company chanced to encounter.
Meanwhile a rustic gentleman in wearing apparel becoming to one of his
lowly station had just made a very stealthy entrance to the campus from
the extreme eastern gates. He had cautiously stepped from a smart black
roadster which was parked a little way from the gates, but well off the
highway. Before he had ventured to step from the car he had left the
steering seat and disappeared into the tonneau of the machine, then
simply a motorist in a voluminous leather motor coat, goggles and a
leather cap.
From the back of the car had presently emerged a typical jay in blue
overalls, and a loud-plaided, collarless, gingham shirt of green, blue
and red mixture. He wore a turkey-red handkerchief, knotted about the
neck, an immense flopping hat of yellowish straw, white socks and carpet
slippers with worsted embroidered fronts. In one hand he clutched firmly
a huge red and yellow striped umbrella. The mask, which Leslie had
ordered sent to her from New York, was a very pink and white face,
utterly insipid, with three flat golden curls pasted on the low
forehead. Its expression, one of cheerful idiocy, was as distinctly as
mirth-inspiring as was the fierce face of Horsefield Hanks. In fact it
would have been hard to decide which of the two get-ups was the funnier.
One swift glance about her to assure herself of a clear coast and Leslie
made a dash for the campus gates. She was through the gateway in a
twinkling. She did not stop until she had put a little distance between
herself and the gates. Then she paused, turned, critically surveyed the
highway, the portion of the campus immediate to her and lastly her car.
She was hardly content to leave it there, but there was no other way. It
was well out of the path of other machines, either coming or going on
the pike. She could but hope that no one would make off with it. She
reflected with a wry smile that there were still a few more cars to be
bought, though she might happen to lose that one. As usual she was
prepared to pay lavishly for her fun.
She hurried straight on across the campus past Silverton Hall and in the
direction of Acasia House. It was the most remote from the gymnasium of
all the campus houses. She and Doris had agreed to meet there, making
the appointment late enough to miss Acasia House rustics when they
should set out for the gymnasium. Doris had telephoned her that
afternoon and made the final arrangement for their rendezvous. They were
to meet behind a huge clump of lilac bushes just budding into leaf.
As she came abreast of the lilac bushes a dainty figure in white dimity,
imprinted with bunches of violets stepped forth to meet her. Doris’s
charming frock had a wide dimity sash and her dimity hat, trimmed with
bunches of silk violets, had long violet ribbon strings. She wore
flat-heeled black kid slippers and white silk stockings of which only a
glimpse showed beneath her long gown.
One look at Leslie’s inane false face and she burst into laughter. “Such
a face!” she gasped mirthfully. “The funniest one I’ve seen since I left
the Hall tonight.”
Leslie lifted the spreading hat and disclosed to Doris a yellow wig
which matched the curls pasted to her mask. “My face is my fortune,” she
announced humorously.
“It’s too funny for words. I’m almost afraid we may be rushed.” Doris
cast an anxious glance at the not far distant crowd.
“Am I so funny as all that?” Leslie asked in gratification.
“You are quite extraordinarily funny,” Doris assured. “The crowd on the
campus has been going it strong ever since dinner. They’re awfully
frisky. Once they get into the gym they’ll be wanting to dance. Then we
won’t be in danger. There’s to be a prize given for the funniest
costume. Too bad you can’t stay in the gym long enough to win it.”
“Oh, I don’t want it. I only want a little fun,” Leslie said.
Warily the pair skirted the crowd and went on to the gymnasium. Leslie’s
funny face immediately challenged the attention of a number of frisky
couples parading the great room. They began flocking about herself and
Doris, asking foolish questions in a gleeful effort to learn her
identity. She remained mute for which Doris was thankful. Her vacant
smiling mask merely continued to beam upon her hilarious questioners.
The Hamtown Gilt Medal Band and Orkestry were already in their corner,
importantly ensconced behind a white pasteboard picket fence. They alone
of the ruralites were unmasked. They were simple geniuses of music in
overalls, gay-checked shirts and high-crowned haying hats of rough
straw, speckled green and red. Strings of richly gilded pasteboard
medals struggled across each musician’s manly chest; they testified
eloquently of past musical achievement. A large gilt-lettered sign, high
on a standard flaunted the proud legend: “We have won all the medals in
Hamtown for the past forty years. The only other band was a hand organ.
Notice our decorations.”
The leader and first violin of this renowned group of musicians was tall
and rather blonde, with an imposing blonde goatee and an artistic sweep
of curled blonde mustache. His companion players were hardly less well
supplied with whiskers, mustaches and even side burns. In direct
apposition to the rustic youths of the community of Hamtown they
presented a decidedly mature, dignified appearance. They seemed
complacently well aware of their musical superiority over their humbler
companions and gave themselves plenty of airs.
At intervals about the spacious gym were little open booths where
popcorn fritters, salted peanuts, stick candy, apples and oranges,
molasses taffy and pink lemonade were sold. In each booth a masked
rustic maid presided, keeping a lynx eye on her wares.
After the orchestra had tuned up with considerable scraping, sawing and
tooting they burst into the rallying strains of the grand march. Doris
heard the sound of the music with patent relief. She had grown more and
more uneasy for fear that Leslie might forget her role of silence and
blurt out a remark in her characteristic fashion. Anyone who had known
her in the past would be likely to recognize her voice.
Doris had suggested that it would be better for they two to dance
together the few numbers before the unmasking for which Leslie dared
remain. To this Leslie would not hear. She craved freedom to roam about
the gymnasium by herself and dance with whom she fancied. She and Doris
walked through the grand march together and danced the first number.
Then Leslie left Doris, who was being singled out by two or three husky
farmer boys for attention, and strolled down the gymnasium, her striped
umbrella under one arm.
Behind the fatuously-smiling blonde face her small dark eyes were
keeping a bright watch on the revelers. She wondered where Bean and her
Beanstalks were and tried to pick them out by height and figure. She
decided that a maid in a pale pink lawn frock was Marjorie and promptly
kept away from her. When the music for the second dance began she made
her bow to a slim sprite in fluffy white who accepted with a genuine
freshie giggle.
Encouraged by her success as a beau Leslie danced the next and still the
next, each time with a different partner. She was a good dancer, and led
with a sureness and ease quite masculine. After a couple of turns about
the room Leslie had been obliged to discard her umbrella. She had boldly
set it up inside the orchestra’s picket fence where it would be less
likely to attract the attention of prankish wags.
At the beginning of the fifth dance Leslie was not yet ready to go. She
glanced at the wall clock which stood at five minutes to nine. It was
still too early for unmasking. She believed herself safe for at least
two more dances after the one about to begin. She started toward a group
of two or three disengaged maids.
Suddenly from the farther end of the gymnasium a cry arose which Leslie
mistook for “Unmask.” It threw her into a panic. She forgot in her
dismay that Doris had said the signal for unmasking would be the blast
of a whistle. What she remembered instead was her striped umbrella. She
was only a few steps from the orchestra corner. She made a frantic rush
to it, reached over the low picket fence and snatched up the umbrella.
She turned away, not noticing that she had laid low a section of the
fence. She hurried across the floor, bent only on reaching the door.
“Oh!” A forceful exclamation went up as she crashed against a couple who
had begun to dance. The force of the collision fairly took the breath of
all three girls. Leslie made an unintentional backward step. The
umbrella slid from under her arm toward the floor just as the jostled
swain and his lady were about to move on. It tripped the rustic gallant
neatly and he sprawled forward full length on the highly waxed floor,
dragging his partner with him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XII.
A RANK OUTSIDER
“What a clumsy creature you are!” The fallen gallant scrambled up from
the floor and delivered the opinion in a feminine voice. It was shrill
and wrathful. It rose in its shrillness above the rhythmic melody of the
orchestra. “It’s both inconsiderate and dangerous in you to carry such a
large umbrella onto the floor. Your face and your behavior go nicely
together.”
“Beg your pardon for upsetting you, but keep your opinion to yourself.”
Leslie began the reply with forced politeness, but ended her words
almost in a hiss. Behind her simpering mask she was a dark fury. “I
never allow anyone to speak in that tone to me.”
“How do you propose to prevent my saying what I please?” came back
tauntingly from the belligerent swain. His partner, a slender, graceful
figure in a pale yellow gingham gown placed a gently arresting hand on
her angry gallant’s arm. It was shaken off with instant hateful
impatience.
“I don’t propose to do that. Nothing short of a clamp could keep you
from shrieking.” Leslie had changed in a twinkling to rude insolence.
“I’ll have mercy on my ear drums and beat it.”
“Wha-a-t?” The angry swain’s voice had suddenly changed key. It had
lowered in