Part 16 (1/2)
CHAPTER XVI
THE PENALTY
Marjorie awoke the next morning with a dull ache in her heart. It was as though she had been the victim of a bad dream. She stared gloomily about her, struggling to recollect the cause of her depression. Then remembrance rushed over her like a wave. No, she had not dreamed. Last night had been only too real. If anyone had even intimated to her beforehand that the party which had promised so much was fated to end so disagreeably, she would have laughed the prediction to scorn. If only Jerry had kept her unpleasantly candid remarks to herself! Yet, after all, she could hardly blame her very much. What Jerry had said had been intended for her ears alone. As hostess, however, she should not have permitted Jerry to continue. Marjorie blamed herself heavily for this.
To be sure, it had been hardly fair in Mary and Mignon to listen. They should have made known their presence. She wondered what she would have done under the same circ.u.mstances. Her sense of honor answered her. She knew she would have immediately come forward. She could not understand why Mary had not done so. Loyal to the core, Marjorie's faith in her chum refused to die. The Mary she had known for so many years had not been lacking in honor. What she had feared from the first had come to pa.s.s. Mary had been swayed by Mignon's baleful personality. The much-talked-of reform had ended in a glaring fizzle.
For some time Marjorie lay still, her thoughts busy with the disquieting events of the previous night. She had longed to turn and comfort the tense little figure standing immovable in the middle of her room, but her Captain's word was law, and Marjorie could but sadly acknowledge to herself that her mother had acted for the best. So she could do nothing but follow her from the room with a heavy heart.
What was to be the outcome of the affair she dared not even imagine. A reconciliation with Mary was her earnest desire. This, however, could hardly be brought about. Perhaps they would never again be friends. A rush of tears blinded her brown eyes. Burying her face in the pillow, Marjorie gave vent to the sorrow which overflowed her soul.
The sound of light, tapping fingers on the door caused her to sit up hastily. ”Come in,” she called, trying to steady her voice.
The door opened to admit Mary Raymond. Her babyish face looked white and wan in the clear morning light. For hours after her door had closed upon Marjorie and her mother she had sat on the edge of her bed in her pretty blue party frock, brooding on her wrongs. When she had finally prepared for sleep, it was only to toss and turn in her bed, wide-awake and resentful. At daylight she had risen listlessly, then fixing upon a certain plan of action, had bathed, put on a simple house gown and knocked at Marjorie's door.
A single glance at Marjorie's face was sufficient for her to determine that her chum had been crying. She decided that she was glad of it.
Marjorie had made _her_ unhappy, now she deserved a similar fate.
”Why, Mary!” Marjorie sprang from the bed and advanced to meet her.
Involuntarily both arms were outstretched in tender appeal.
Mary took no notice of the mutely pleading arms, save to step back with a cold gesture of avoidance.
”I haven't come here to be friends,” she said with deliberate cruelty.
”I've come to ask you what you intend to say to your mother.”
”What _can_ I say to her?” Marjorie's voice had a despairing note.
”You can say nothing,” retorted Mary. ”That is what _I_ intend to do.
Your friend, Jerry Macy, said too much last night. I cannot see why our school affairs should be discussed in this house. I am sorry that Mignon made a--a--disturbance last night. I didn't intend to listen, but----” Her old-time frankness had almost overcome her newly hostile bearing. She was on the point of saying that she had been ready to step forth from behind the palms at Jerry's first speech. Then loyalty to Mignon prevailed and she paused.
Marjorie caught at a straw. ”I _knew_ you didn't intend to listen, Mary.” The a.s.surance rang out earnestly. ”I couldn't make myself believe that you would. I wanted to stay last night and tell you how sorry I was for--for everything, but I owed it to Captain to obey orders. Mary, dear, can't we start over again? I'm sure it's all been a stupid mistake. Let's be good soldiers and resolve to face that dreadful enemy, Misunderstanding, together. Let's go to Captain and tell her every single thing! Think how much better we'll both feel. It almost broke my heart, last night, when you said you were going to Mignon's to live. If Captain thinks it best, I'll break my promise to Connie and tell you----”
At the mention of Constance Stevens' name Mary's face darkened. Touched by Marjorie's impa.s.sioned appeal she had been tempted to break down the barrier that rose between them and take the girl she still adored into her stubborn heart again. But the mere name of Constance had acted as a spur to her rancor.
”Don't trouble yourself about begging permission of Miss Stevens on _my_ account,” she sneered. ”I know a great deal too much of her already.
What do you suppose the girls and boys of Franklin High, who gave you your b.u.t.terfly pin, would say if they knew that you let the girl who stole it from you wear it for months? If you had been honorable you would have made her give it back and then dropped her forever.”
Marjorie's sorrow disappeared in wrath. ”Mary Raymond, you don't know what you are talking about,” she flamed. ”I can guess who told you that untruth. It was Mignon La Salle. It was _not_ Constance who took my b.u.t.terfly pin. It was----”
Again she remembered her promise.
”Well,” jeered Mary, ”who was it, then?”
”I shall not say another word until I see Captain.” Marjorie's tones were freighted with decision.
”You mean that you can't deny that your friend Constance was guilty,”
cut in Mary scornfully. ”Never mind. I don't care to hear anything more.
You needn't consult your mother, either. I'm never going to be friends with you again, so it doesn't matter. But if you ever cared the least bit for me you'll do as I ask and not tell tales to Captain--I mean Mrs.