Part 21 (1/2)
”I'll surely be there, Connie. I'll bring my offerings with me. Don't you forget that you are due at the Deans' residence on Christmas morning. Bring Charlie with you.”
After her friends had gone, Marjorie went into the living room to speculate for the hundredth time on the subject of Mary's present. It was a beautiful little neckchain of tiny, square, gold links, similar to one her Captain had given her on her last birthday. Mary had frequently admired it in times past and for months Marjorie had saved a portion from her allowance with which to buy it. She had a theory that a gift to one's dearest friends should entail self-sacrifice on the part of the giver. Mary's changed att.i.tude toward her had not counted. She was still resolved upon giving her the chain. But how was she to do it? And suppose when she offered it Mary were to refuse it?
The entrance of her mother broke in upon her unhappy speculations. ”I'm glad you came, Captain,” she said. ”I've been trying to think how I had best give Mary her present.”
”Then don't worry about it any longer,” comforted Mrs. Dean. Stepping over to the low chair in which Marjorie sat she pa.s.sed her arm about her troubled daughter and drew her close. ”That is a part of my plan. Wait until Christmas morning and you will know.”
”Tell me now,” coaxed Marjorie, snuggling comfortably into the hollow of the protecting arm.
”That would be strictly against orders,” came the laughing response.
”Have patience, Lieutenant.”
”All right, I will.” St.u.r.dily dismissing her curiosity, Marjorie began a detailed account of the afternoon's labor, which lasted until Mr. Dean came rollicking in and engaged Marjorie in a rough-and-tumble romp that left her flushed and laughing.
Despite her many errands of good will and charity, the next two days dragged interminably. On Christmas Eve Mr. Dean took his family and Mary to the theatre to see a play that had had a long, successful run in New York City the previous season and was now doomed to the road. After the play they stopped at Sargent's for a late supper. Under Mr. Dean's genial influence Mary thawed a trifle and even went so far as to address Marjorie several times, to the latter's utter amazement. This was in reality the beginning of Mrs. Dean's carefully laid plan. Marjorie guessed as much and wondered hopefully as to what might happen next.
Nothing special occurred that evening, however, except that Mary bade her a curt ”good night.” But Marjorie hugged even that short utterance to her heart and went to sleep in a buoyantly hopeful state of mind.
She was awakened the next morning by a military tattoo, rapped on her door by energetic fingers. ”Report to the living room for duty,”
commanded a purposely gruff voice, which she was not slow to recognize.
”Merry Christmas, General,” she called. ”Lieutenant Dean will report in the living room in about three minutes.” Hopping out of bed she reached for her bath robe. Then the sound of tapping fingers again came to her ears. This time they were on Mary's door. Hastily drawing on stockings and bed-room slippers, she sped from her room and down the stairs. Her father stood stiffly at the foot of the stairway in his most general-like manner. She saluted and came to attention. A moment or two of waiting followed, then Mary appeared at the head of the stairs. She began to descend slowly, but Mr. Dean called out, ”No lagging in the line,” and long obedience to orders served to make her quicken her pace.
”Twos right, march,” ordered Mr. Dean, motioning toward the living room.
Wonderingly the company of two obeyed. Then two pairs of eyes were fastened upon a curious object that stood upright in the middle of the living-room table. It was a good-sized flag of pure white.
”Form ranks!” came the order.
Two girlish figures lined up, side by side.
”Salute the Flag of Truce,” commanded the wily General.
Mary gave an audible gasp of sheer amazement. Marjorie laughed outright.
”Silence in the ranks,” bellowed the stern commandant. ”Pay strict attention to what I am about to say. In time of war it sometimes becomes necessary to hoist a flag of truce. This means a suspense of hostilities. The flag of truce is hoisted in this house for all day. It will remain so until twelve o'clock to-night. Respect it. Now break ranks and we'll enjoy our Christmas presents. I hope my army hasn't forgotten its worthy General!”
”Mary,” Marjorie's voice trembled. Tears blurred her brown eyes. ”It's Christmas morning. Will you kiss me?”
Mary was possessed with a contrary desire to turn and rush upstairs. She felt dimly that to kiss Marjorie was to declare peace against her will.
But her better nature whispered to her not to ruin the peace of Yuletide. She would respect the flag of truce for one day. Then she could give Marjorie the ring she had bought for her before coming to Sanford and laid away for Christmas. Afterward she would show her that she had softened merely for the time being. She returned Marjorie's affectionate kiss rather coolly. Nevertheless, the ice was broken.
Five minutes later she found herself running upstairs for her presents for the Deans in an almost happy mood, and she joined in the present giving with a heartiness that was far from forced. Once she had ceased to resist Marjorie's winning advances she was completely drawn into the divine spirit of the occasion, and she allowed herself to drift once more into the dear channel of bygone friends.h.i.+p.
Marjorie fairly bubbled over with exuberant happiness. The unbelievable had come to pa.s.s. She and Mary were once more chums. She longed to tell Mary all that was in her heart, but refrained. For to-day it was better to live on the surface of things. Later there would be plenty of time for confidences. After breakfast she mentioned rather timidly that she expected a call from Constance and little Charlie.
Mary received the statement with an apparent docility that brought welcome relief to Marjorie. She was not sure of her chum on this one point. When Constance and Charlie arrived at a little after ten o'clock, burdened with gaily decked bundles, Marjorie's fears were set at rest.
To be sure, Mary showed no enthusiasm over Constance, but Charlie was a different matter. She had conceived a strange, deep love for the quaint little boy and spared no pains to entertain him. While she was putting Marjorie's beautiful angora cat, Ruffle, through a series of cunning little tricks, which he performed with sleepy indolence, Marjorie managed to say to Constance, ”I can't come to see you to-night, Connie.