CHAPTER XIX
THE UNLUCKY TALISMAN
There was a rapturous shriek of joy from Charlie as Constance opened thedoor for Marjorie and their hands and lips met in Christmas greeting.Marjorie stooped to embrace the excited little figure. "Santa Claus didcome to see Charlie, didn't he?" she exclaimed, in pretended surprise."And what did he bring?"
For answer the child limped to his Christmas corner. "Oh, a fiddle," hesaid reverently, clasping the little violin to his heart. "Now I shallplay in the band soon. Johnny said so." He thrust the violin under hissharp little chin, the thin fingers of his left hand reaching across thefingerboard, his left wrist curving into position.
"Why, he holds it like a real violinist!" exclaimed Marjorie. "Can heplay?"
Charlie answered her question by dragging his triumphant bow across thehelpless strings, drawing forth a wailing discord of tortured sound.
"He thinks he can," giggled Constance. "I suppose those awful soundsare the sweetest music to his ears. Luckily, we don't mind them. I hopeyou don't. I hate to stop him, he is so delighted with himself."
"I don't mind in the least," assured Marjorie. "I wouldn't spoil hispleasure for anything in the world."
Charlie had no intention of giving a concert that morning, however; hehad too many other things to distract his mind.
Marjorie sat on the floor beside the Christmas tree, her feet tuckedunder her, and listened with becoming gravity and attention while hetold her about Santa Claus' visit, and one by one brought forth hisprecious presents for her to see.
"He must have had enough presents to go around this year or he wouldn'thave left me so many," asserted the child with happy positiveness."Connie's going to write him a letter and say thank you for me. If Idon't say 'thank you' when someone gives me something, then I can neverplay in the band. Johnny and father always say it. I'm sorry I didn'twrite to Santa Claus before Christmas and ask him for a new leg. I can'tgo fast on this one. It's been wearing out ever since I was a baby andit keeps on getting shorter."
"Santa Claus can't give you a new leg, Charlie boy," answered Marjorie,her bright face clouding momentarily, "but perhaps some day we can finda good, kind man who will make this poor little leg over like a newone."
"When you find him, you'll be sure to tell him all about me, won't you,Marjorie?" he asked eagerly.
"As sure as anything," nodded Marjory, brushing his heavy black hair outof his eyes and kissing him gently.
"Will you walk down to the drugstore with me, Marjorie?" put inConstance, abruptly.
Marjorie glanced up to meet her friend's troubled gaze. In an instantshe was on her feet.
"It's a good thing I didn't take off my hat and coat. I'm ready to go,you see."
"Charlie can watch for us at the window," suggested Constance, huggingthe child. "We won't be long."
Once outside the house there was an eloquent silence. "It's dreadful,isn't it?" There was a catch in Constance's voice when finally shespoke.
"Can't he be cured?" queried Marjorie, softly.
"Yes; so a specialist said, if only we had the money."
"He is such a quaint child, and he really and truly believes in SantaClaus," mused Marjorie, aloud. "Most children of his age don't."
"He's different," was the quick reply. "He has been brought up away fromother children and in a world of his own. He believes in fairies, too,good ones and bad ones. But he loves music better than anything else inthe world, and his highest ambition in life is to play in the band. Ifonly I had the money to make him well! I'd love to see him strong andsturdy like other children."
"You mustn't talk about such sad things to-day, but just be happy,"counseled Marjorie, slipping her arm through that of her friend."Charlie is cheerful and jolly in spite of his poor lame leg. Perhapsthe New Year will bring you something glorious."
"You are so comforting, Marjorie," sighed Constance. "I'll throw all mycares to the winds and keep sunny all day if I can."
"I must go now." They entered the little gray house again, just in timeto hear remonstrative squeaks from the E string of the diminutiveviolin, blended with disheartened moans from the A and growls of protestfrom the G string.
"How did you like that?" inquired Charlie, calmly.
"It was very noisy," criticised Constance.
"It was a very hard passage to play," explained the embryo musician,soberly.
"It seems to have been," laughed Marjorie.
"That is what Johnny says when he doesn't pay attention and makes amistake on the fiddle," confided Charlie.
Constance's sad look vanished at this naive assertion. "He imitatesfather and Uncle John in everything," she explained. "He will haveplayed his way through all the music in the house before to-morrownight--most of it upside down, too."
"I'd love to stay longer, but I promised to stop at Macy's and we haveour dinner at one o'clock. I wish you could come, too, but I know you'drather be at home. Thank you again for the hemstitched handkerchiefs. Idon't see how you found the time to make them."
"Thank you for the lovely hand-embroidered blouse and all Charlie'sthings," reminded Constance. "I hope we'll spend many, many moreChristmases together."
"So do I," echoed Marjorie, as she kissed Charlie and held out her handto her friend.
Her call on the Macys lasted the better part of an hour, for Jerry wasthe recipient of a host of gifts, and insisted upon displaying them,while Hal refused to pose gracefully in the background and absorbed asmuch of Marjorie's attention as she would give him, secretly wonderingif she would be pleased with the box of American Beauty roses he hadordered the florist to deliver at the Deans' residence at noon that day.
What a blissful Christmas it was! From the moment of Marjorie'sawakening that morning until the day was done it was one long successionof joyous surprises. And, oh, glorious thought! there were ten blesseddays of vacation stretching before her.
"I'll see if Constance will go to the matinee Saturday," she planneddrowsily that night as she prepared for sleep. "We will take Charlie. Ipromised him long ago that I would. I'll run over there to-morrow. Toobad I didn't think of it to-day."
But "to-morrow" brought its own deeds to be done, and so did thefollowing two days, and it was Friday afternoon before Marjorie foundtime for her visit to the little gray house.
Ever since Christmas it had snowed at intervals and the snow-plow menhad been kept busy clearing the streets. It was just the kind of weatherto wear one's fur coat, and Marjorie gave a little shiver of delight asshe slipped into her Christmas treasure. And how warm it was! Thesearching east wind that was abroad that day held no discomfort for her.
As she stepped briskly along over the hard-packed walk, hedged in byhigh-piled snow, she thought rather soberly of her own good fortune andwondered why so many beautiful things had been given to her while toConstance life had grudged all but the barest necessities. With a rushof generous impulse she resolved to do all in her power to smooth thetroubled way of her friend.
When within sight of the house Marjorie's eyes were fastened upon theliving-room windows for some sign of Charlie, who would sit contentedlyat one of them by the hour watching the passersby. Catching sight ofhis pale little face pressed to the window pane she waved her hand gailyto him. He disappeared from the window and an instant later stood in theopen door, shouting gleefully, "Oh, Connie, here's Marjorie! Here'sMarjorie!"
Marjorie bent and embraced the gleeful little boy. "How is Charlieto-day?" she asked.
"Pretty well," nodded the child. "I wish I had asked for that leg,though. Mine hurts to-day."
"You poor baby!" consoled Marjorie, tenderly. "But where is Connie,dear?"
"She's upstairs. I'll call her."
He limped across the room to the stair door, which was situated at oneside of the living-room, and opened it. "Connie," he called, "Marjorie'scome to see us."
There was a sound of quick footsteps on the stairs and Constanceappeared. "I didn't know you were here," she apologized.
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bsp; "Where were you on Thursday?" began Marjorie, laughingly. "You promisedto come over. Don't you remember?"
"Yes," returned Constance, briefly. Then with a swift return of the old,chilling reserve, which of late she had seemed to lose, "It wasimpossible for me to come."
Marjorie scrutinized her friend's face. The look of impassivity had comeback to it. "What is the matter, Constance?" she questioned anxiously."Has anything happened?"
An expression of intense pain leaped into Constance's blue eyes. "I'vesomething to tell you, Marjorie. It's dreadful. I----" With a muffledsob she threw herself, face down, upon the old velvet couch, her slendershoulders shaking with passionate grief.
"Why, Constance!" Marjorie regarded the sobbing girl in sympatheticamazement.
Charlie went over to the couch and patted Constance's fair head. "Don'tcry, Connie," he pleaded. Then, limping to a dilapidated writing desk inthe corner, which Marjorie never remembered to have seen open before, hetook from one of the lower pigeonholes a small, glittering object.
"This is what makes Connie cry." He opened his hand and disclosed alittle object on his outstretched palm. "Shall I throw the old thinginto the fire, Connie?"
With a sharp ejaculation of dismay, Constance sprang from the couch. Oneswift glance toward the desk, then she caught Charlie's tiny hand inhers. "Give it to Connie, this minute," she commanded sternly. For theinstant Marjorie was forgotten.
Charlie's lips quivered with grieved surprise. Relinquishing his hold onthe object he wailed resentfully, "It is a horrid old thing. It made youcry, and me, too."
"Charlie, dear," soothed Constance. Then she glanced up to meet thehorrified stare of two accusing brown eyes. "Why--Marjorie!" sheexclaimed.
"Where--where--did you get that pin?" Marjorie's soft voice soundedharsh and unnatural.
"That's what I started to tell you," faltered Constance. "Oh, it's sodreadful I can't bear to speak of it. Yet I must tell you. I--thepin----" she broke down and throwing herself on the lounge again beganto cry disconsolately.
An appalling silence fell upon the shabby, music-littered room, brokenonly by Constance's sobs. Marjorie stood rooted to the spot. Could it betrue that Constance, the girl she had fought for, the girl for whosesake she had braved class ostracism, had deliberately stolen her pin?Yet she must believe the evidence of her own eyes which had told herthat in Charlie's hand lay her cherished pin, her lost, much-mourned-forbutterfly!
If Constance had deliberately taken the pin, then she was a thief. Ifshe had found it, but purposely failed to return it, she was still athief. Marjorie opened her lips to pour forth a torrent of reproaches,but the words would not come. She had a wild desire to pry open the handwhich held her precious butterfly and seize it, but her hands remainedlimply at her sides. It was her pin, her very own, yet she could nottouch it unless Constance chose to hand it to her.
But Constance made no such proffer. Still clutching the preciousbutterfly she continued to weep unrestrainedly.
Marjorie waited patiently.
Having failed hopelessly as a comforter, Charlie had hobbled to hiscorner, where his Christmas tree still stood, and, with that blessedforgetfulness of sorrow which childhood alone knows, had dragged forthhis violin and begun a dismal screeching and scraping, a nerve-rackingobligato to his foster sister's sobs.
Five endless minutes passed, but Constance made no sign.
"I'm--I'm going now," choked Marjorie. Hot tears lay thick on hereyelashes. She stumbled blindly toward the door, her face averted fromthe girl who had so misused and abused her friendship. "Good-bye,Constance."
Something in the reproachful ring of that "Good-bye," startled Constanceout of her grief. She had been too greatly overcome with her own troubleto note the effect of her tears and broken words upon Marjorie. SurelyMarjorie was not angry with her for crying.
"Wait a minute, Marjorie," she called. "Please don't be angry. I won'tcry any more. I want to tell you about the pin. It was----"
But only the sound of a closing door answered her. Marjorie was gone.