CHAPTER XX
THE CROWNING INJURY
Marjorie never remembered just how she reached home that afternoon. Shefollowed the familial streets mechanically, her brain tortured with butone burning thought--Constance was a thief. Over and over the dreadfulsentence repeated itself in her mind. "How could she?" was herhalf-sobbed whisper, as she slipped quietly into the house, and, withoutglancing toward the living-room, went softly upstairs to her room. Shewanted to be alone. Not even her beloved captain could ease the hurtdealt her by the girl she had loved and trusted. Her mother must neverknow that Constance was unworthy. No one should know, but she couldnever, never be friends with Constance again.
With the tears running down her cheeks Marjorie took off the new furcoat she had worn so proudly that afternoon and dropped it upon thefirst convenient chair. Her hat followed it; then throwing herselfacross the bed, she gave way to uncontrolled weeping. Until that momentshe had not realized how greatly she had loved this girl who had Mary'seyes of true blue, but who was so sadly lacking in Mary's fine sense ofhonor.
Until the afternoon light waned and the shadows began to creep upon hershe lay mourning, and inconsolable. Her generous heart had been sorelywounded and she could not easily thrust aside her dreadful sense ofloss; neither could she understand why Constance had partly acknowledgedthat she took the butterfly pin, but had not offered to return it.
"I couldn't ask her for it," she sighed to herself, as, at last, sherose, switched on the electric light, and viewed her tear-swollen facein the mirror, "not when she had kept it all this time. She knew howdreadfully I felt over losing it, and she certainly saw the notice inthe hall." A flash of resentment tinged her grief.
"I can't forgive her. I'll never forgive her. I----" Marjorie's lipsbegan to quiver ominously. "I won't cry any more," she asserted stoutly."My face is a sight now. Mother will ask me what the trouble is, and Idon't want a soul to know. Of course, we can't go to the matineeto-morrow. We can't ever go anywhere together again." Once more thetears threatened to fall. She shut her eyes and forced them back, thenwent dejectedly down the hall to the bathroom to lave her flushed faceand aching eyes.
By the time dinner was ready Marjorie showed no traces of her grief.She was unusually quiet at dinner, however, and her mother inquiredanxiously if she were ill.
"Did you wear your new coat this afternoon?" her father asked soberly.
"Yes, General. I went to see Constance." Marjorie tried to speaknaturally.
"Ah, that accounts for it," he declared, putting on a professional air."Too much magnificence has struck in. You have, no doubt, awell-developed case of pride and vanity."
"I haven't a single shred of either," protested Marjorie, laughing alittle at her father's tone, which was an exact imitation of theirformer family physician. "That sounded just like good old Doctor Bates."
"Are you and Constance going to take Charlie to the matinee to-morrow,dear?" asked her mother.
"No, Mother," returned Marjorie. Then as though determined to evadefurther questioning, she asked: "May I go shopping with you?"
"I wish you would. You can select the material for your new dress andthe lace for that blouse I am making for you. It is so pretty. My newfashion book came to-day. I have picked out several styles of gowns foryou."
"What did you pick out for me?" inquired Mr. Dean, ingenuously.
"You can't have any new clothes. Too much magnificence would strike in.You would have, no doubt, a well-developed case of pride and vanity,"retorted Marjorie, wickedly.
"Report at the guard house at once, for disrespectful conduct to yoursuperior officer," ordered Mr. Dean with great severity.
"Not to-night, thank you," bowed the disobedient lieutenant, as allthree rose from the table, "I'm going upstairs to my room to write aletter."
Once in her room Marjorie went to her desk and opened it with areluctance born of the knowledge of a painful task to be performed.Seating herself, she reached for her pen and nibbled the end soberly asshe racked her brain for the best way to begin a note to Constance.Finally she decided and wrote:
"Dear Constance:
"I cannot come over to your house to-morrow or ever again. I know whatyou wanted to tell me. It is too dreadful to think of. You should havetold me before. I will never let anyone know, so you need not worry. Youhave hurt me terribly, and I can't forgive you yet, but I hope I shallsome day. I don't like to mention things, but for your own sake won'tyou try to do what is right about the pin? I shall always speak to youin school, for I don't wish the girls to know we have separated.
"Yours sorrowfully,
"MARJORIE."
When she had finished, the all-too-ready tears had again flooded hereyes and dropped unrestrained upon the green blotting pad on her desk.After a little she slowly wiped her eyes, and, without reading what shehad written, folded the letter, addressed and stamped it. Slipping intoher coat, she wound a silken scarf about her head and went downstairs.
"I'm going out to the mailbox, Mother," she called, as she passed theliving-room door.
"Very well," returned Mrs. Dean, abstractedly. She was deep in her bookand did not glance up, for which Marjorie was thankful. If her mothernoticed her reddened eyelids, explanations would necessarily follow.
The next day dragged interminably. Even the usual pleasure of goingshopping with her captain could not mitigate the pain of yesterday'sshocking discovery. To Marjorie the bare idea of theft was abhorrent.When, at the Hallowe'en dance, Mignon had accused Constance of takingher bracelet, Marjorie's wrath at the insult to her friend had beenrighteous and sweeping.
That night, as she sat opposite her mother in the living-room trying toread one of the books she had received for Christmas the incident of themissing bracelet and Mignon's accusation suddenly loomed up in her mindlike an unwelcome specter. Suppose Mignon had been right, after all.Jerry had openly asserted that she did not believe Mignon had reallylost her bracelet, and in her anger Marjorie had secretly agreed withthe stout girl. Suppose Constance had taken it. What if she were one ofthose persons one reads of in books whom continued poverty had madedishonest, or perhaps she was a kleptomaniac? The last idea, thoughunpleasant to contemplate, was not so repugnant to her as the first; butshe did not believe it to be true. Constance's partial confession,coupled with her ready tears, was positive proof that she had beenconscious of her act of theft. There was only one other theory left; shehad found the pin and succumbed to the temptation of keeping it. YetConstance had always averred that she did not care for jewelry, andwould not wear it if she possessed it.
Marjorie went over these suppositions again and again, but each time hertheories ended with the bitter fact that, in spite of her tears,Constance had kept her ill-gotten bauble.
The vacation which had promised so much, and which she had happilysupposed would be all too short, seemed endless. During the long daysthat followed she received no word from the girl in the little grayhouse. If Constance had received her letter, she made no sign, and thisserved to add to Marjorie's belief in her unworthiness.
Jerry Macy's New Year's party proved a welcome relief from the hatefulexperience through which she had passed. Although invited, Constancewas not among the merry gathering of young people, and Jerry loudlylamented the fact. Mr. Stevens and Uncle John Roland, who furnished themusic for the dancing, greeted Marjorie with affectionate regard. It wasevident that they knew nothing of what had transpired. Constance wasill, her father reported, but hoped to be able to return to school onTuesday. He thanked Marjorie for her remembrance of him and Charlie, andUncle John forgot himself and repeated everything after him withgrateful nods and smiles.
During the evening Marjorie frequently found herself near the twomusicians, and Lawrence Armitage, secretly disappointed because ofConstance's absence, also did considerable loitering in their immediatevicinity. If the troubled little lieutenant had had nothing on her mind,she would have spent a mos
t delightful evening, for the Macy's enormousliving-room had been transformed into a veritable ballroom, where theguests might dance without bumping elbows at every turn, while Hal andJerry were the most hospitable entertainers.
If Constance's father and foster uncle had not been present, she mighthave forgotten her woes, but whenever she glanced at either, thesorrowful face of the Mary girl rose before her. To make matters worse,Jerry proposed to her that they call upon Constance the next day, andMarjorie was obliged to refuse lamely without giving any apparentreason. It was in the nature of a relief to her when the party broke up.In spite of the gratifying knowledge that the girls had pronounced hernew white silk frock the prettiest gown of all, and that Hal Macy hadbeen her devoted cavalier, Marjorie Dean went to bed that night in amost unhappy mood.
The Monday before she returned to school she began a long letter toMary. She and Mary had sworn that, though miles divided them, they wouldtell each other their secrets. Resolved to keep her word, she hadwritten her heart out to her chum, then had read the letter and torn itinto little pieces. Having written only pleasant things of her newfriend to Mary, she could not bear to take away her good name with a fewstrokes of her pen.
"If only Constance were true and honorable like Mary," she sighed as sheclosed her desk, and selecting a book she wandered disconsolatelydownstairs to the living-room to read; but her thoughts continuallyreverted to her own grievance. "If she gives back my pin, I'll forgiveher," was her final conclusion as at last she laid her book aside withan impatient sigh, and sitting down on a little stool near the fire,stared gloomily into its ruddy depths; "but I never, never, never canfeel the same toward her again."
Marjorie went to school on Tuesday morning vaguely hoping thatConstance would see things in a finer light and act accordingly.Unselfish in most respects, the poor little soldier had forgotteneverything save the fact that she was the injured one. To her it seemedas though the other girl's crushing weight of half-acknowledged guiltought to make her a willing suppliant for pardon. During the early partof the morning session she waited, half expecting to receive a contriteplea for grace from the Mary girl.
When her French hour came, she hurried into the classroom, thinking thatshe might see Constance before the class gathered; but ProfessorFontaine had closed the door and remarked genially, "_Bon jour,mesdemoiselles. Comment vous portez vous, aujourd'hui_. I trost that youhave not forgotten your French during your 'oliday," when it openedquietly to admit Constance.
Marjorie regarded her gravely, noting that she looked pale and tired.Suddenly her eyes opened in wide, unbelieving amazement. With ahalf-smothered exclamation that caused half the class to turn and lookat her, including Mignon, whose alert eyes traveled knowingly betweenthe two girls, she tore her gaze from the disturbing sight, and, puttingone hand over her eyes, leaned her head on her arm. For fastened at theopen neck of Constance's blouse was her butterfly pin.