Читать книгу: «Marjorie Dean, High School Senior», страница 9

“Oh, Marjorie!” she exclaimed, as her friend reached the booth. “It’s wonderful! I can’t really believe that this good time has come to me! And I have you to thank for it all! I hope some day to be able to show you how much I appreciate your friendship.”

“I’m ever so glad to see you so bright and happy, Lucy,” Marjorie made earnest response. “You must thank yourself for your good time, though. You are a faithful Lookout. This is only the beginning. There are lots of good times ahead of you.”

Before Lucy could reply, Hal Macy appeared at Marjorie’s elbow with, “Veronica’s here. She’s in the girls’ dressing room. She wants to see you.”

“I’ll come back later, Lucy.” With a friendly nod, Marjorie turned to accompany Hal across the polished floor. A happy smile played about her lips. Whatever the Lookouts might eventually set down to their further credit, they had certainly succeeded in bringing happiness to Lucy Warner.

CHAPTER XVI – A PUZZLING YOUNG PERSON

“Veronica Browning!” Marjorie cried out admiringly. “You magnificent person. Where, oh where, did you get that wonderful, I won’t say gown, I’ll say robe? Certainly you never walked through the streets of Sanford in that.”

“Oh, no, I ordered a – ” Veronica checked herself, looking vexed. “Miss Archer insisted that I should come in a taxicab,” she explained shortly.

“It’s a marvelous robe.” Noting Veronica’s abrupt chopping off of her first sentence, and the frown that accompanied it, Marjorie hastily returned to the exquisite garment Veronica was wearing. It was of soft, dead black crêpe de chine, and fell away from her dazzlingly white throat and shoulders in long, graceful lines. Very full, it swept the floor ending in a border of stars and crescent moons, outlined in dull silver. The ample sleeves, edged in the same silver design, dropped away from her round white arms, giving a wing-like effect. Over her golden brown hair was banded a fillet of silver. A quaintly-wrought pendant in the form of a crescent depended from it and lay directly on the center of her forehead.

“You look like – let me see – a painting of ‘Night’ that I once saw!” cried Marjorie, triumphantly recalling it in time to make the comparison. “But what are you going to do with those black and orange wings?” Marjorie was intently eyeing a small pair of black and orange wings that dangled from Veronica’s arm.

“I am the Night, the silvery, shadowy Night,” declaimed Veronica gaily, one white arm raised aloft. “I am going to give you a dance called ‘Night.’ Hence this somber robe. No, the wings don’t belong to Night. Underneath this black pall, I am a glorious black and orange butterfly. I am to do two dances; ‘Butterfly’ will follow ‘Night.’ I can rid myself of this black thing in about one minute or even less. As I come next to you on the program, Connie, I will ask you to wait after your song and fasten on my wings. Here they are.”

“Where did you learn to dance, Veronica?” queried Marjorie thoughtlessly. Instantly she regretted having asked the question. Hastily she added: “That was rather a personal question. Perhaps I shouldn’t – ”

“Oh, I don’t object to telling you, Marjorie.” A faintly amused smile dawned upon Veronica’s lips. “I have known how to dance ever since I was a child. Most of my dances like ‘Night’ and ‘Butterfly’ I made up. The Shadow dance I learned from seeing it done by another person. I used to – ” Again the provoking break in her speech occurred.

Marjorie’s face fell. Why did Veronica always pause in the middle of what promised to be an interesting revelation? What an extremely peculiar girl she was. She could not refrain from wondering, too, at the beautiful robe that this charming but tantalizing young person wore. It must have cost a considerable sum of money. Yet Veronica appeared to regard it with the carelessness of one who was accustomed to the best of everything. Perhaps she had at one time been possessed of wealth and had met with sudden reverses. Still, it was hardly likely that, given such a contingency, she would now be so humbly earning her living and education. Marjorie’s swift cogitations ended in a sigh of defeat at her inability to reconcile lowly Veronica with her handsome dancing dress.

Veronica’s voice, quivering with suppressed laughter, broke in upon her perplexed meditations. “Now you are wondering all sorts of things about me,” she guessed, flashing a tender glance at Marjorie. “Never mind. Some day I may be able to set all your doubts at rest.”

“It isn’t a question of doubts, Ronny.” Marjorie returned the other girl’s glance with one of equal affection. “I haven’t a single doubt about you. It’s only that sometimes you puzzle me.”

“I know I do. There are certain things – ”

The arrival of Constance cut short what bade fair to have been a confidence on Veronica’s part. Directly behind Constance came Mignon La Salle. Her black eyes widened as she caught sight of Veronica. As Constance warmly greeted the latter the French girl continued to stare at the black-garbed figure as though unable to believe her own eyesight.

“Good evening,” she said stiffly, inclining her haughty head very formally to Veronica. “Sorry to intrude. I thought I might find Geraldine here.”

“Didn’t you see her when you came in?” asked Marjorie in surprise.

“Oh, yes. I saw her then, but I wish to tell her something.” Mignon tossed her head. Unable to keep her grievance to herself she continued angrily: “I must have the lemonade bowl moved to one of the booths. I don’t like the present location of it. When Geraldine,” she loftily refused to shorten it to Jerry, “mentioned it to me, I didn’t pay any particular attention to what she was saving. I wish I had. At any rate, it will have to be moved.”

Blank silence succeeded this declaration. Veronica was not in touch with the situation and therefore had nothing to say. Constance and Marjorie knew only too well that stolid Jerry would not yield to Mignon’s whim. This knowledge robbed them both of ready speech.

The sonorous voice of Colonel Dearborn raised in an address of welcome was borne to their ears as a timely bridge over the embarrassing situation.

“The Campfire has begun,” snapped Mignon. “I must find Geraldine.” She flaunted from the room, a disgruntled flash of yellow.

“I must go, too.” Marjorie walked to the open door. “I’ll see you both later. Are you going to stay for the dance, Ronny?”

“No.” Veronica shook her head. “Like Cinderella, I must flit away from the ball as soon as I have danced.” She breathed a faint sigh of regret, then smiled mockingly. “Such social pleasures are not for a poor servant girl.”

Marjorie left the dressing room with these words still in her ears. Taking up her position in the booth she forced herself to forget puzzling Veronica for the moment and gave herself over to listening to the speeches. She had missed the most of the old Colonel’s brief, soldier-like address, so she paid strict heed to those of Captain Baynes and Miss Archer.

When they had retired, to the sound of hearty applause from the overflowing gallery, the Weston High Glee Club lifted up their tuneful voices in the first number of the revue. Danny Seabrooke followed them with a clever juggling act. Marjorie’s heart beat high with love and pride as Connie stepped serenely onto the stage, with the quiet composure that so individualized her, and awaited the prelude to her song played by Professor Harmon. To Marjorie it seemed as though she had never heard Connie sing more sweetly. The song she had chosen was particularly beautiful and her clear, pure notes held a world of pathos that went straight to the heart. Abiding by Laurie’s mandate she refused to respond to an encore, though the audience clamored persistently for it.

Unknown to Marjorie, a curious bit of drama had preceded the dance by Veronica, to which she was impatiently looking forward. Lawrence Armitage had met Veronica when she entered the Armory, enveloped in a long black cloak, and courteously conducted her to the girls’ dressing room. It being his duty to call each act, he was kept busy between the two dressing rooms. As Constance was finishing her song, he hurried to the left-hand dressing room and rapped on the half-open door. From within he heard the sound of cheerful voices and light laughter. Muriel, Susan and Rita, the feminine half of the sextette which was to follow Veronica’s dance, had gathered there and were chatting gaily with the pretty dancer.

“Come,” called Muriel Harding.

Entering, Laurie’s eyes became suddenly riveted on Veronica. A perplexed frown sprang to his brow. He was again obsessed with the conviction that he had previously seen her in this very costume. His puzzlement deepened as he stepped to the door and held it open for her. Catching up a fold of her voluminous robe, she smiled and made him a saucy little curtsey of thanks. Only a few feet intervened between the door and the three steps leading up to the platform. A row of tall potted palms had been set on each side of it, so as to partially conceal the entrance and exit of each performer. The quaint curtsey of the black-garbed girl caused truant recollection to sweep over Laurie in a flood. “Now I know where I first saw you!” he exclaimed in a low, triumphant tone. Like a flash Veronica laid a warning finger to her lips. “Keep it a secret,” she breathed as she flitted by him. The next instant she had scurried up the three steps and onto the platform, leaving behind her a most amazed young man.

A subdued breath of wondering admiration stirred the audience upstairs and down as this lovely apparition of Night glided to the center of the stage. For a brief instant she tarried there, raising her white arms and lowering them with a slow, sweeping gesture that gave the effect of darkness suddenly dropping down upon the earth. Then the orchestra sounded a soft sighing prelude and the black and silver figure circled the stage like a floating, elusive shadow. Few persons in that assemblage had ever before witnessed an interpretative dance such as Veronica performed. It was as though she had become embued with the very spirit of Night and sought to impress it upon her audience. Every movement and gesture was replete with meaning. She brought to the imagination that stir of supreme mystery with which one often watches the darkness gather and the first stars of the evening begin to twinkle in the firmament. At the end of it she exited with a quick, gliding run, arms horizontally outstretched, hands holding up the loose folds of her robe, a veritable winged Night itself rushing swiftly on toward dawn.

Before the first wild echo of applause had spent itself, she was back on the stage, miraculously metamorphosed into a gorgeous black and orange butterfly. She proceeded to give the Sanfordites a spectacle in toe dancing worthy a premiere. Even as she had put the soul of the Night itself into her previous dance, now she truly resembled a huge butterfly, sailing joyously about in the sunshine. The perfection of her interpretation took the audience by storm. When she disappeared, or rather fluttered from the stage, a tumult of approbation set in. Laurie was obliged to mount the platform and explain that Miss Browning would not respond to an encore, before quiet was again restored and the sextette made its appearance.

Although the remaining numbers of the revue each received a generous mead of approval, the honors of the performance were decidedly Veronica’s. Even Constance, for once, held second place. The grace and originality of the former’s interpretations had aroused enthusiasm on all sides.

There was one person, however, who had not been pleasantly impressed by Veronica’s dancing. Mignon La Salle was enraged beyond measure at the triumph of “that servant girl.” Her own solo, as usual a difficult French song which few present had understood and could therefore only mildly appreciate, had been received with a far lesser degree of enthusiasm than she had confidently expected. She blamed Marjorie Dean, who had helped Laurie arrange the program, for placing her song so near to the end of the revue. She was also furious with Jerry Macy. The stout girl had calmly refused to place the lemonade bowl in one of the booths, explaining that, as it in itself was a feature, its present position would not be bettered by moving it to a booth.

Completely out of sorts with the world in general, Mignon cherished a lawless desire to swoop down upon the big cut glass lemonade bowl, overturn it, send it crashing to the floor and fling the cups that surrounded it, after it. Her second thought was to go to Jerry, refuse to become a purveyor of lemonade and shake the dust of the Armory from her disdainful feet. Crafty reflection whispered to her that this course would be folly. Jerry would take her at her word and show little sorrow at being thus deprived of her services. It behooved her to hit upon some new method of retaliation which would doubly repay these hateful girls for the fancied wrongs she had suffered at their hands. She vowed that before the third and last evening of the bazaar had ended she would find a way to do it.

CHAPTER XVII – CHOOSING A VICTIM

The military maneuvers by the Sanford Guards over, the well-pleased spectators made an orderly rush for the big drill floor, there to take more active part in the Campfire. Opening as it did on a national holiday, everyone was in high good humor and willing to spend money. The space reserved for the dancing had been roped in, leaving a good-sized aisle all the way around the Armory between the ropes and the booths. There was no room on the lower floor for chairs, but the gallery offered a vantage point to those who preferred to become onlookers of the dancing rather than take part in it.

That it had been a highly profitable evening became evident to the Lookouts, when just before midnight they happily viewed their depleted booths and fell to counting their gains. Everything had progressed with unrivaled smoothness. Even Mignon’s black eyes glistened as she counted the wealth of nickels and small silver which had accrued from the despised lemonade bowl. She had taken in almost thirty dollars and plumed herself accordingly. Jerry had been right in her calculation as to the best place for the lemonade. Far from admitting it, Mignon merely felt increasing bitterness toward Jerry.

Busy Jerry was quite unaware of Mignon’s dark sentiments toward herself. Had she known of them, they would have caused her small anxiety. She was too blissfully elated over the success of the Campfire to do anything but rejoice loudly as she moved from booth to booth, a good-sized cash box in hand, to collect the evening’s profits.

“It’s a howling success,” she caroled joyously, as she entered the candy booth. Seated on a high stool Marjorie was too much absorbed in the counting of little piles of money, from notes to pennies, to do more than nod emphatically to this triumphant salutation.

“I believe almost everyone who was here to-night bought a box of candy,” she said solemnly as she finished with a heap of nickels and marked down the amount they made on a slip of paper. “We’ve taken in – ” She hurriedly calculated the joint receipts. “Would you believe it? I have one hundred and two dollars here. If we keep on like this we won’t have enough candy to last us over to-morrow night.”

“It’s pretty much the same in all the booths. You folks are quite a little ahead of the others, though. You’re the original candy kid, Marjorie. That’s not slang. It’s a compliment.”

“It sounds like both,” laughed Marjorie. “Wasn’t the revue fine, Jerry? Did you ever before see anyone dance like Ronny. She’s a marvel. Not that I liked her dancing a bit better than Connie’s singing,” she added loyally, “but it was so entirely different from anything we’ve ever had at a show. She told me to-night that she made up both those dances herself.”

“She gets curiouser and curiouser,” commented Jerry. “One who didn’t know could never be made to believe that such a gorgeous person was working her way through high school. What puzzles me most is where – I guess I won’t say it. I’m a Lookout.”

“I know what you mean. I thought of it, too. It’s her own affair. We mustn’t discuss it, or her, either.” Marjorie was equally bent on loyalty.

“There’s something I’ve just got to say, though,” declared Jerry. “Mignon behaved a lot better about the lemonade bowl than I thought. She asked me to change the location of it. Of course I said ‘no.’ She looked pretty stormy for a minute, then she said, ‘Have it your own way,’ and walked off, shrugging her shoulders. I expected she’d make a fuss, and for once she gave me a pleasant surprise. I hope she behaves like a reasonable human being during the other two nights of the Campfire.”

It was on Marjorie’s tongue to relate to Jerry what Mignon had said in the dressing room. Considering it in the light of gossip she refrained from repeating it. She hastened to agree with Jerry that she also hoped for the best regarding Mignon and let the subject drop.

Friday saw the Lookouts and the Guards early at the Armory, hard at work preparing for the rush they trusted that evening would bring. There was much to be done and they spent the day in indefatigable toil, going home only long enough to snatch a hasty luncheon before returning to their tasks. The program of the revue was to remain the same save for a change of songs on the part of the vocalists. There were to be no addresses, however, as on the opening night.

Their painstaking preparations were again rewarded by a crowd of pleasure seekers almost as large as that of the previous evening. Again everything slid gaily along as though on invisible wheels. Midnight again ushered in the counting of large gains. Saturday proved an equally busy day. The youthful promoters of the Campfire were troubled only by the alarming possibility that their wares were sure to give out long before the evening was over. They decided wisely to sell out every last article of which the merchant booths boasted and let the dancing and amusement booths do the rest.

Despite the work of the Campfire, the day nursery received its afternoon quota of two Lookouts. It was an obligation which had to be met, Campfire or no Campfire. Even Mignon La Salle, when asked if she would do duty Saturday afternoon, acquiesced without a murmur, taking care to inquire of Irma Linton, however, before committing herself, as to who would be her partner in the enterprise. Her thoughts centered on the Campfire, Irma had consulted her book and replied absently, “Lucy Warner.” Nor did she note the peculiar gleam in the French girl’s eyes as she answered suavely, “Very well, you may count on me to go with her.”

The opportunity to hold a heart-to-heart talk with Lucy was something for which Mignon had been vainly watching ever since the Hallowe’en party. Due to Marjorie Dean’s discreet counsel, Lucy had not given the French girl the slightest conversational opening. She had surrounded herself with a wall of icy reserve which Mignon had found impregnable. She was, therefore, secretly jubilant over the unexpected manner in which Fortune had favored her. It was late Friday evening when Irma had informed her of it and Lucy had already gone home. Irma had explained to Mignon that it was really Jerry’s turn to go to the nursery, but owing to her many duties at the Campfire she had asked for a substitute.

This accorded even better with Mignon’s plans. There was every possibility that Lucy would know nothing of the substitution until it would be too late to protest against it. Jerry, herself, was yet to be reckoned with, however. Irma would undoubtedly inform Jerry that she, Mignon, was to take her place. If Jerry took the trouble to inquire who was to accompany Mignon she would promptly veto Lucy’s going. Yet there was a fighting chance that busy Jerry might forget to ask this question. Mignon hoped that she would. She also decided, that she would not put in an appearance at the Armory on Saturday before going to the nursery. She would telephone Irma in the morning that she could not go there before night, but would be on hand at the nursery for her detail.

There are times when Fortune apparently leans kindly toward the unworthy. In the long run, however, she generally deserts these wrong-doers, leaving them to flounder miserably in the meshes of the nets they have heartlessly set for others. For the time being, at least, she had chosen to favor Mignon. Owing to a number of important letters Lucy Warner had promised to write for Miss Archer, she had also arranged to be away from the Armory until Saturday evening. She had planned to go directly from the office to the day nursery, where she confidently expected Jerry to meet her.

As for Jerry, she had thankfully received Irma’s promise to supply a substitute and inquired no further into the matter. Had Marjorie or Constance known of the arrangement Irma had innocently made, it would have been changed. Caught up in the whirl of the Campfire, neither of them remembered to question Irma regarding who was to do duty at the nursery on Saturday. Thus for Mignon the field was miraculously cleared of impediments.

When, at four o’clock, Lucy entered the playroom of the nursery, her amazement can be better imagined than described. Instead of seeing good-natured Jerry Macy, her displeased eyes rested on Mignon La Salle. Bored indifference written on her sharp features, the French girl lounged in a chair in a corner of the playroom, apparently with no intent toward making herself useful. Strangely enough she was now the only person in the room.

“Hello, Lucy,” she drawled. “You don’t seem pleased to see me.”

“I’m not,” snapped Lucy. “Where is Jerry Macy? She is to be on duty with me this afternoon.”

Mignon merely shrugged her shoulders by way of an answer.

“Where is she?” repeated Lucy, her brows knitting in their ready scowl.

“She won’t be here. Irma asked me to take her place. Any objections?”

“I am willing to abide by Irma’s decision.” It cost Lucy severe effort to make this reply. “As you are to take Jerry’s place, suppose we start at once to amuse the children. By the way, where are they?”

“Out in the back yard. I sent them there and told that stupid maid to look after them. They made too much noise. I couldn’t stand it.”

“It’s too cold for them to be out.” With a swift, reproachful glance toward indolent Mignon, Lucy hurried to the back yard to attend to her charges. Five minutes later she had hustled them into the playroom, a shivering little band, and started a romping, childish game, calculated to undo any bad effects which might otherwise result from Mignon’s neglect.

Realizing that she could expect no help from the French girl, Lucy ignored her and entered energetically into her work. A lover of children, it was a pleasure to make them happy. One baby game followed another until the twilight shadows began to thicken. Finally marshaling them to their chairs at the table, she took her place among them and told them fairy tales in a simple, lively fashion that quite enthralled them.

Through it all, Mignon made no move to assist her. She simply sat still, a smile of mocking amusement on her thin lips. Lucy Warner had found her own level, was her uncharitable thought. As a mere nobody, she was quite at home with these grubby, slum waifs. Undoubtedly Lucy was furious with her for not helping entertain these beggars. Nevertheless, she was quite sure that angry or not Lucy would listen to what she intended, presently, to say. Six o’clock would mark the end of the detestable session. Then – Mignon’s smile grew more malevolent as she noted that the wall clock pointed to five minutes before six.

As it rang out the hour, the matron entered the kitchen. “You’d better go now, Miss Lucy,” she said kindly. “I know you have to be at the Armory by half past seven. The mothers of these babies will soon be coming for them. I’ll look after them till then.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Taggart.” Lucy rose amid a chorus of hearty protest from her charges. “Dood-bye,” and “Tum aden soon, nice lady,” greeted her from all sides.

“I will,” she promised, nodding gaily toward her small worshippers. Without glancing at Mignon she turned to the oak settle on which she had laid her wraps and began to put them on. She was, indeed, deeply incensed against Mignon. Should she or should she not inform Jerry Macy of Mignon’s lack of co-operation? She hardly knew what to do about it. On one point she was quite determined. She would not walk home with the French girl. She would bid her a cool “good night” and hurry from the house.

Mignon was of a different opinion. Seeing Lucy engaged in donning her wraps, she lazily rose. Pettishly brushing aside a youngster who had toddled up to her and clutched a fold of her gown, she hastily slipped on her fur coat – she had not removed her hat – and hurried after Lucy. The latter had already delivered her curt farewell and was out on the veranda before Mignon overtook her.

“Wait a minute,” commanded Mignon. “I have something to tell you that you must listen to. You’ll understand that I mean well, the moment you hear it. It’s a shame for you to be so deceived by Marjorie Dean. She – ”

“I won’t listen to you.” Lucy’s smoldering anger flashed into instant flame. “You can’t make me believe anything hateful of Marjorie. You are only trying to make trouble.” Discretion overcome by wrath she continued heatedly, “Marjorie herself warned me not to take your gossip seriously. She knew that – ”

“I’d tell you certain things she has said about you to me,” sneered Mignon.

“Certain things? What do you mean?” Lucy’s too-suspicious nature now sprang to the fore. This was the second time that Mignon had insinuated that Marjorie had gossiped about her.

“After all, what’s the use of telling you?” Mignon craftily changed her tactics with a view toward whetting Lucy’s morbid curiosity. “You’ll go straight to Marjorie Dean with them. She will deny them, of course. Then you will be down on me more than ever.”

“If you can tell me anything that will actually prove to me that Marjorie Dean is not my friend, I promise you faithfully never to go to her with it.” Lucy spoke with hurt intensity. “If she has been deceitful with me, as you insist that she has, I will never willingly speak to her again. But I am sure she is honorable and loyal. I can’t believe otherwise,” she ended with a quick, sobbing breath.

“That for her loyalty!” Mignon snapped her fingers. “What about the Observer?”

Lucy shrank from Mignon as though the latter had dealt her a physical blow. In the November twilight the paleness of her set face stood out sharply. “Stop!” she gasped. Catching Mignon’s arm in a tense hold, she planted herself squarely before her tormentor. “What – do – you – know – about the Observer?” she stammered, her green eyes gleaming like those of a cat.

Mignon laughed unpleasantly. “Not as much, perhaps, as you know, but enough. You were an idiot to ask Marjorie Dean’s forgiveness. She loves to make persons believe they are in the wrong, so that she can have the pleasure of forgiving them. She is really clever at that sort of thing. She made poor Mary Raymond’s life miserable during that winter Mary lived at the Deans. Mary was a silly to make up with her. Why, the very day that Marjorie and I went to Miss Archer’s to see about getting you the secretaryship, she mentioned the trouble you and she had last year. She was quite cautious about it then and didn’t tell me much. Later I found out about the Observer, though.”

Stunned by Mignon’s revelations, Lucy silently fought back the burning tears that threatened to overflow her eyes. But one thought obscured her sorely troubled mind. Marjorie Dean had cruelly betrayed her to Mignon. She had pledged her word of honor never to reveal Lucy’s misdeed to anyone, and she had broken her word. Utterly crushed, poor Lucy did not stop to consider that Mignon was the least likely of all persons to whom Marjorie would confide such a secret. She knew only that the mere mention of the word “Observer” was clear proof of her false friend’s perfidy. Over-suspicious by nature, she was prone to believe all persons villains until they had given signal manifestation of their honesty. Nor had she been long enough associated with Marjorie and her friends to easily retreat from that unjust viewpoint.

“Don’t feel downhearted about it,” was Mignon’s sneering consolation. “Now that your eyes have been opened to a few things, you can show Marjorie Dean that you aren’t as dense as she seems to think you. I don’t mind in the least about that Observer business. I dare say if you told me your side of it I should find that it wasn’t anything very dreadful. As for Marjorie Dean’s version, well – ” Mignon made a significant pause.

“I have nothing whatever to say on that subject,” was Lucy’s stiff answer. She was vowing within herself that “Once bitten twice shy” should hereafter be her motto. “I will say this much, though. You have given me unmistakable proof that Marjorie Dean is not nor never was my friend. I will keep my promise to you.”

Before Mignon had time to make reply, a rush of light feet on the pavement informed her that Lucy had left her. Through the dusk she could just distinguish a little figure fleeing madly up the quiet street. She laughed softly as it turned a corner and disappeared. She had already done much toward avenging the wrongs she had received at the hands of Marjorie Dean.