Part 23 (1/2)

”Charlie won't tell,” gravely a.s.sured the youngster.

Mary pressed a firm finger on the bell and held it there for a second.

Then she darted down the steps, around a corner of the house and across a wide stretch of frozen lawn. She remembered that she could climb the low fence at the back of the grounds, cut across a field which lay below them and emerge on a small street not far from the Deans' home. She did not pause for breath until she reached the street she had in mind.

Flushed and panting from her wild flight it was several minutes before she could compose herself sufficiently to go on toward home. Luckily for her she met but two persons, a boy of perhaps fifteen and a laboring man. Neither gave her more than the merest glance.

But her last ordeal was yet to come. What would Marjorie and her mother think when they saw her? They would immediately guess that something unusual must have happened to bring her home from the party before it had hardly more than begun. Her recent experience had left her in no mood for explanations. She decided to try slipping quietly in at the rear door of the house. There was, of course, a possibility that it might be locked, but if it were not--so much the better for her.

There was an instant of breathless suspense as she noiselessly turned the k.n.o.b. It yielded to her touch, and she stole into the kitchen and up the back stairs like an unsubstantial shadow of the night, rather than a very tired and sore-hearted girl. Once in her room she sat down on her bed to think things over. She dared not move about for fear of being heard by Marjorie or her mother. Long she sat, moodily reviewing the year that had promised so much, yet had yielded her nothing but dissension and sorrow. One bare, ugly fact confronted her, looming up like a hideous monster whose dreadful claws had shredded her peace of mind and now waved at her the tattered fragments. It had all been her fault. For the first time she saw herself as she really was. A jealous, suspicious, hateful girl. It was she, not Marjorie, who had been unfaithful to friends.h.i.+p. But she had gone on blindly, unreasoningly, preferring to think the worst, until now it was too late to bridge the gap that she had daily widened between herself and her chum by her absurd jealousy. She could never regain her lost ground. She felt that Marjorie's patience with her had long since been exhausted. She dared not, could not, plead for reinstatement. All that remained to be done was to go through the rest of that dreadful year alone. When she and Marjorie had finished their soph.o.m.ore course she would go quietly away, and they would, perhaps, never meet again.

Alone with her bitter remorse, Mary wept until she could cry no more.

As is usually the case with youth, she was sweeping in her self-condemnation. But that bitter hour of self-revelation did more to arouse within her the determination to conquer herself and establish the foundation for a n.o.ble womanhood than she could possibly believe.

At last she pulled herself together to play the final scene in her evening's drama. Mrs. Dean had given her a latchkey, in order that she might let herself into the house, should she return from the party after the Deans had retired. At half-past ten o'clock she heard Marjorie and her mother come up the stairs to their rooms. Mr. Dean was away from home on a business trip. When all sounds of conversation between the two women had ceased and the house had apparently settled down for the night, Mary crept softly out of her room and down the stairs. Opening the hall door with stealthy fingers, she stepped into the vestibule. She listened intently for a sign from above that her soft-footed journey down the stairs had been discovered. But none came. Turning deliberately about, she retraced her steps, closing the hall door with sufficient force to announce her arrival. Without attempt at stealth she walked across the hall, up the stairs and into the pretty blue room that she had lately left. The closing of her own door purposely sounded her home coming.

”Is that you, Mary?” called Marjorie's voice from the next room.

Mary trembled with positive relief at the signal success of her manoeuver. Steadying her voice, she replied, ”Yes, it is I.”

”Did you have a nice time?”

Mary read merely polite inquiry in the tone. It lacked Marjorie's former warmth and affection.

”Not particularly.” Impulsively she added, ”I missed you, Marjorie. I'm sorry you weren't there.” Breathlessly she waited for a response.

But Marjorie was only human. Resentment against Mignon, rather than Mary, permeated her reply. ”It's nice in you to say so, but I am very glad I wasn't there. I should consider an invitation to Mignon La Salle's party as anything but an honor.” It was the first deliberately cutting speech that Marjorie Dean had ever uttered. Realizing its cruelty she called out contritely, ”That was hateful in me, Mary. Please forget what I said.”

”Oh, it doesn't matter. Good night.” Mary managed to force the indifferent answer. She felt that she deserved even this and more. She was rapidly learning to her sorrow that, when one plants nettles, in time they are sure to grow up and sting.

CHAPTER XXIII

FOR THE FAME OF SANFORD HIGH

When Marjorie Dean went down to breakfast the following morning it was with the feeling that her sharp answer to Mary's unexpected comments of the night before had been unworthy of her better self. Mary's reply, ”Oh, it doesn't matter,” had somehow sounded wistful rather than indifferent. To be sure, Mary had literally forced upon her the reserved stand which she had at last taken. Yet underneath her proud att.i.tude of distant courtesy toward the girl who had once taken first place in her friends.h.i.+p still lurked the faint hope of reconciliation. But she had made her last advance on that memorable Christmas day when Mary had shown her so plainly that she respected the flag of truce for the day only and had returned to her former state of antagonism at the first opportunity. In the beginning it had been hard to stifle her impulsive nature, and appear courteous yet wholly unconcerned regarding her chum's welfare, but in time she found it comparatively easy. Friends.h.i.+p was dying hard, yet it _was_ dying, nevertheless. This thought had startled Marjorie a little as she recalled how easy it had been to be disagreeable, where once it would have seemed absolutely impossible to allow those cutting words to pa.s.s her lips. It came soberly to her that morning as she walked into the dining room that, after all, she did not wish that friends.h.i.+p to die. Something must be done to keep it alive until Mary was quite herself again.

The faint line of concern which appeared between her dark brows deepened as this latest conviction took hold of her. As she pondered, the object of her thoughts appeared in the doorway. Mary's face wore an air of listlessness that quite corresponded with her subdued, ”Good morning, Marjorie. Good morning, Captain.”

”You look all tired out, my dear,” remarked Mrs. Dean solicitously.

There was a curiously pathetic droop to Mary's mouth which gave her the appearance of a very tired child who had played too hard and was ready to be put to bed, rather than to begin the day's round of events. ”Did you dance too much?”

”No.” A peculiar little smile flickered across the girl's pale features.

She wondered what Mrs. Dean would say if she told her just how she had spent her evening.

Marjorie regarded Mary almost curiously. In some indefinable way she had changed. Then it flashed across her that Mary's usual stubborn expression had given place to one of distinct sadness. With a kindly endeavor toward lightening her chum's heavy mood, she tried to draw her out to talk of the party. She met with little success. As Mary, in reality, knew nothing further of it than the fact that Mignon had worn a gypsy costume and that the majority of the boys invited had not put in an appearance, she was hardly prepared to describe the affair. She, therefore, answered Marjorie's questions in brief monosyllables and volunteered no information whatever.

”I am going over to see Jerry Macy this morning. Would you like to go with me?” asked Marjorie, after her attempt to discuss the party had proved futile.

”No; I thank you just the same. I have several things to buy at the stores, and then I am going for a walk. I would ask you to go with me, only you are going to Jerry's.”