“You don’t like Laurie, do you, Mother?” she charged unexpectedly, whirling around and facing her mother with beseeching eyes. “He’s so merry and—dear, I don’t see how you can help liking him!” And the tears poured down with unexpected swiftness.
“I didn’t say I didn’t like him, dear child!” said the mother, distressed. “Oh, I never meant to make you feel badly. I just wanted to warn you. Of course Laurie is likable. He certainly is merry—yes, and dear in his ways—I understand how you feel. But I scarcely know him well enough to judge whether he is suitable for my precious girl. He drops in here, has a pleasant word, flashes his handsome eyes, smiles charmingly, smoothes his beautiful dark hair; and he’s courteous and delightful in every way for the five minutes while he is waiting for you. Then you flit off together, and hours later I hear him linger at the door a minute when he brings you back. How can I know?”
“Oh, Mother! I didn’t realize! Of course you don’t really know him, do you? Couldn’t we ask him here to dinner some night?”
“We could,” said the mother thoughtfully. “Are you sure he would want to come? Of course, now since his mother has invited you, it will be easier for us to invite him—perhaps. But, dear, I want you to face the future, be sure of every step you take, and not rush into something that will bring you sorrow after the glamour has departed.”
“Mother! Isn’t there any real love in the world that lasts? All glamour doesn’t depart, does it?”
“There certainly is a true love that lasts, and that’s what I want you to have, dear. That’s why I’m daring to invade the privacy of your heart and warn you.”
Marigold pondered this, perplexed. “But why are you especially worried about Laurie, Mother? When Eastman Hunter and Earle Browning used to come here a good deal, you never said anything, nor when John Potter came. You seemed to take it all perfectly naturally and counted them my good friends. You didn’t probe me to see if I was going to get married right away. I wasn’t so much younger than I am now. It was only a little over a year ago. Did you like any of them better than Laurie?”
“No, not as well,” said the mother frankly, “but, dear, Laurie is of another class. It is always a serious question when young people of different classes try to come together. Once in a great while such a marriage is a happy one, but too often it is not. I want you to be really happy, darling!”
“Mother, I didn’t think you believed in classes and aristocracy!” charged Marigold unhappily. “I thought you thought we were just as good as anybody else.”
“I’m not talking about one being better than another, child. I’m thinking of the different ways of upbringing.”
“Laurie has been beautifully brought up,” said the girl proudly. “He has more real courtesy and culture than anybody I know.”
“Yes,” said the mother thoughtfully, “as far as courtesy goes, he is charming! But it isn’t just courtesy and culture I mean. There are other things, things of the world. Marigold, you know yourself he has been brought up by the standards of the world, and he considers worldly things first.”
“Oh, but Mother, that wouldn’t make any difference with us. He always wants to do what I want. That is, almost always,” cried the girl.
The mother smiled sadly.
“That’s very nice now, dear,” she said, “but would it last? And have you realized, my girl, that you yourself have let down some of your own standards since you began to go with Laurie?”
Marigold dropped her glance and flushed uneasily.
“Oh, well, not in things that really matter,” she said. “I don’t think it’s right to be too straight-laced. I found Laurie didn’t understand my attitude at all, and I didn’t see that a few trifles were important. He doesn’t insist on much. And anyway, what’s that got to do with my new dress?”
The mother studied her a little sadly and then with a sigh said, “Well, dear, let’s put it all away and just enjoy your dress. I’ve been looking at it while we talked, and the richness of it is growing on me. It is really distinguished-looking. The silk is a beautiful texture. It must have been especially woven for the company that made the dress. We don’t get silk like that in the stores today. It’s more like the quality of my grandmother’s wedding dress. And I like that way the sash is tied around the waist and the line of crimson fringe falling on the heavy white. It’s most unusual.”
Suddenly Marigold came up behind her mother and flung her arms around her neck.
“Oh, you dear, precious mother!” she cried. “You’re rare! You always did cheer me up just at the last minute when I’m ready to hate myself for something I’ve done. You’re a good sport if there ever was one. I know you don’t like that dress, not as much as you’d like to like it. You think it’s all out of place for me, and perhaps you’re right. At least if I had only myself to consider, I’m sure you are. But I just felt I must have it. You see, Mother, the woman who sold it to me showed me the dresses Laurie’s mother and sister have ordered, and I know what I’m up against. She said this one came in after theirs were ordered, or she was sure Gwendolyn would have taken it instead of the one she got, for she had asked for white with a touch of this new red on it and was disappointed that they didn’t have it. However, her own is lovely! It’s pale apricot silk mesh, frilled till it looks like foam. She’ll be a dream in it. She has dark hair and eyes, like Laurie’s.”
Mrs. Brooke watched her daughter’s changing vivid expression with troubled eyes. How thoroughly intrigued her dear child was with all that belonged to Lawrence Trescott! Was her warning too late? Should she have done something about it sooner? Or was she perhaps mistaken? Could it be that this was the way her child’s life was planned? Could Laurie bring Marigold the best happiness? Was he worthy of her? She could not bear that there should be heartbreak in store for her wonderful little girl.
“You’re not listening to me, Mother!” charged the daughter reproachfully. “Your eyes are quite far away!”
“Oh yes, I’m listening. Apricot-colored silk mesh would be lovely on anybody. Will she wear pearls with it, I wonder?”
“No,” said Marigold eagerly, “the saleswoman said she was wearing rose quartz—a long rope of rose quartz beads, with a buckle and bracelet to match. She had the buckle there. She showed it to me. It’s most unusual. Strange for her, isn’t it, to choose semiprecious stones when she might have real pearls! Or diamonds! But things like that are worn now instead of the real precious gems. And I can see that there’s something about the depths of rose quartz that gives just the right light and sparkle to the silk mesh.”
Her mother smiled whimsically. “Fortunate, isn’t it, that diamonds are not necessary, or where would you be? We have only a small diamond pin and my engagement ring.”
“Oh, Mother, you would suggest that I would demand diamonds! Well, if I wanted them I might get them at the five-and-ten!” She giggled suddenly.
“Dear child!” The mother stooped and touched her lips to the fair, young forehead and tried to drive the shadows away from her own eyes. If her girl was making a mistake, at least she herself would try to act gallantly through the experience.
Oh, heavenly Father, keep my child! Guide her! Save her from sorrow! her heart prayed, even while she entered into the merry talk as they prepared the evening meal.
They were just sitting down to the table when there came a ring at the door—a boy with a special delivery letter!
“A letter from Aunt Marian,” announced Marigold, coming back eagerly. “Special delivery, too. Open it quick and see if anything is the matter.”
Aunt Marian was Mrs. Brooke’s older sister, an invalid, who lived with her married daughter in Washington, DC.
Dear Mary (she wrote),
Can’t you come down and spend my birthday with me? Elinor is going with her husband on a short trip to Bermuda and she hates to leave me alone, especially on my birthday. If you and Marigold could come and make me a little visit while they are gone and stay over a few more days to
see them when they get back it would be wonderful. Do you realize that I haven’t seen you for four years—though we’re not so far apart? My heart is “just a wearyin” for you. Can’t you come? And I haven’t seen Marigold since she was a wee child. It isn’t right.
I’m hurrying this off because I want you to have plenty of time to plan to come, and I shall await your answer eagerly. My birthday, you may remember, is the fifth. Remember I’m sick and I’m getting old.
Lovingly and eagerly,
Marian
Marigold watched her mother as she read the letter aloud and saw the wistfulness in it.
“Mother, you ought to go!” she said vehemently when the letter was finished. “I can’t go, of course, because that’s the night of the Trescott party, but there’s no reason in the world why you can’t go and stay a whole week or two. It isn’t right you shouldn’t see more of your only sister!”
Mrs. Brooke drew a deep sigh and gave a faint little smile of negation. “I couldn’t possibly afford it now, dear. It costs quite a lot to go down, even on the bus, and the rent will be due just before that. You see, having to get a new fur collar on my coat set me back a good deal this quarter, and there’s no telling whether there will be any income from my few investments next month or not. Things have been terribly tied up, you know. Besides, dear, I wouldn’t want to be away the day you go to that party. I want to see you dressed and ready. I want to be sure that everything is right about you, and I want to have the memory of you in your wonderful gown. Then I want to be waiting for you when you get back and hear you tell all about it. I like to see the first light in your eyes before the joy has faded and life settled down into the humdrum again.”
“Oh, you dear sentimentalist!” laughed Marigold. “Those things would all keep! And as for the money, you make me ashamed. If I can afford to spend a hundred and fifty dollars for a grand gown, you certainly can afford the few dollars it costs to go down to Washington for your sister’s birthday, especially when she asks you in that special way.”
“No, dear, it’s quite impossible!” said Mrs. Brooke firmly. “I would need a lot of new things to go down there, and I’m not going now. Perhaps in the spring I’ll be able to manage it. And I know your aunt will understand—your first grand party! She will know I would need to be here! She was that way about her Elinor, too!”
“But, Mother, you make me feel very selfish.”
“No, dear. You mustn’t feel that way. It’s all right. You let me manage this!”
And just then Laurie rushed in unexpectedly. “Come on, Mara. I’ve got tickets for the ice carnival. Get your skates and we’ll make the first number!”
In almost no time Marigold was gone, and her mother was left alone to read her sister’s letter and shed a few quiet tears on her own account. Then she sighed and thought of her girl and wondered. Was she foolish to worry this way about Marigold? Good, dear Marigold, always thinking of her and wanting everything happy for everybody.
But Marigold was off skimming on the ice at the rink, her cheeks as bright as roses, her eyes like two stars, and the red-gold hair flaming brightly as she glided along. For Laurie’s arm was around her, his handsome face was looking down at her admiringly, and back at home there hung a wonderful garment from François’s, ready for her appearance at the Trescott party. Life seemed good to Marigold. Why worry about anything? It was a mother’s duty to worry, perhaps, but it would all come out right in the end. She was Laurie’s girl, and that was all that she cared about now.
Chapter 2
That very afternoon over in the Trescott mansion, Laurie Trescott’s mother was sitting at her desk with a pile of letters and papers before her, talking to her sister-in-law, Irene Trescott, who had just run in to talk over a few plans connected with the party that was to come off the next week.
Out in the hall, Maggie, a woman who was sometimes called in for an extra to supplement the regular staff of servants, was washing the baseboards and wiping up the floor after some electricians had finished the work of installing some new outlets. The door stood wide open and Maggie could hear all that went on, though she hadn’t been much interested to listen until she heard a name she knew.
“Well, Adele, how are you getting on with your arrangements?” asked Irene. “Everything’s going as well as all your parties do, I suppose? But say, Adele, what’s all this I hear about Laurie having a little rowdy girl and you inviting her to the party? Is that true?”
“I don’t know that she’s a rowdy,” said Adele, facing her sister-in-law and answering in a voice that had suddenly congealed. “I really don’t know much about her except that she’s respectable. Poor but respectable—at least they say so! She’s the daughter of a deceased clergyman, I understand, without a penny to her name. Imagine it! Going around with my Laurie! And the foolish boy doesn’t in the least realize what he’s doing! He’s just having a good time, of course, but with quite an impossible girl. Her name is Marigold Brooke! You wouldn’t know her, of course. She’s not in the limelight, thank goodness! Not yet, anyway, and shan’t be if I can help it!”
“Then why is she invited to the party? Or isn’t that so?”
“Yes, I invited her. Of course. Laurie wished it, and I didn’t think it wise to argue with him. I just invited her as I would have invited any other girl he put on his list. I didn’t wish to put up an opposition. Laurie is very headstrong, you know. He takes after his father in that. And if he thought I didn’t want her, it would be just like him to say he wouldn’t come either. He never can stand being driven; you have to humor him in everything or else you don’t get anywhere.”
“Well, I think you’re making a very grave mistake,” said Irene. “I always did think you were too easy with Laurie. However, that’s not my business. But I can’t understand inviting her if you don’t want to foster the friendship.”
“You don’t know my plan, Irene. I’m doing this with a purpose. Have you never heard of the expulsive power of a new affection? They had a woman in the club the other day who talked about that. At least, maybe it was a book by that name, or something someone had said, I’m not sure which. I was making out my list of guests and didn’t listen much, but I caught that phrase and thought it was a good one. I think I can make a great deal of use of it in various ways. But it especially struck me, because it is just what I’m trying to work in Laurie’s case.
“Irene, have you heard who I’m having as my guest of honor? Robena DeWitte! Do you know her? Did you ever see her? Well, you’ve something to anticipate, then. She’s the most regal girl I’ve ever met, perfectly stunning-looking and dresses like a queen, besides being fabulously rich. She’s graceful, accomplished, athletic. She flies her own plane and is good in all sports, has the most entrancing figure, and is very clever. You’ve heard of her, of course. Well, she’s my drawing card. With Robena there, I’m not afraid any mere preacher’s daughter can get any attention from my son. I shall give her just a hint of how the land lies, and I’m quite sure she’s clever enough to turn the trick. When this little simple child of a preacher that Laurie has taken on appears on the scene, she’ll certainly find out where she doesn’t belong! And so, I flatter myself, will my son. Laurie is very quick to see a thing when it is presented to him in the right light. Just put that poor little common child in this environment and he’ll see soon enough what a mistake she is. And it will all come about in the most natural way, you see, without my having to expostulate with him at all. He’ll just see he was wrong and stop going with her. There’s nothing like showing up the wrong girl side by side with the right one to bring a young man to his senses!”
“Well, you’re making a very grave mistake, Adele,” said the sharp sister-in-law complacently. “I take it you haven’t seen ‘the wrong girl’ as you call her. But when you do, you’ll be surprised. She’s a raving little beauty and no mistake, and you won’t work anything on Laurie that way, mark my words, for Robena isn’t in it beside Marigold Brooke.”
“Do yo
u mean you’ve seen her, Irene?” asked the alarmed mother. “Do you mean you know her?”
“Well, I can’t be said to know her, exactly,” said the woman of the world, “but I’ve seen her plenty, and I can’t say Laurie’s taste in beauty is so bad. She’s Betty Lou Petrie’s teacher in school, and Betty Lou is perfectly crazy about her. Every time I go over to the Petries’ I hear it. ‘Miss Marigold says this,’ and ‘Miss Marigold says that,’ and Eva Petrie says the children just think the sun rises and sets in her. And she’s got the most gorgeous hair! My word! If they wanted anybody to pose for an angel’s picture I should say she would be simply stunning! Robena is no match for her in beauty.”
“Oh, dear me! But, Irene, not in this environment, you wouldn’t think, would you? She wouldn’t have the clothes, would she?”
“She’s clever!” said Irene dryly. “She’d get the clothes, if she had to make them, and she’d make you like them, too! She’d wear them as if they came from Paris.”
“But, how could she? A little country minister’s daughter! A schoolteacher!”
“I tell you she’s clever, and she’s out to win whatever she wants!”
“Gracious, why didn’t you tell me this before I invited her? I didn’t have any idea it was anything like that.”
“What did you think your son was, a dummy? Going with a girl who wasn’t a good-looker nor a good dresser? Laurie knows the right thing when he sees it! He’s nobody’s dummy.”
“Well, I don’t think it was very kind of you not to warn me!”
“Look here, Adele, I hadn’t an idea you’d do such a crazy thing as to invite Marigold to your party. I thought your line was ignoring her, and besides, you never take my advice when I give it, so why should I bother? But I will say this: if you want Laurie to walk your way, take his pocket money away. That’s the only way in the world you can curb that lad. He just can’t exist without money.”
Maggie, out in the hall, had rubbed so hard at one spot on the baseboard that she had almost eradicated the paint, and she had knelt on her stiff rheumatic knees so long that she could hardly struggle her over-plumpness into a standing position. But she lumbered up at last, took herself reluctantly down the back stairs, and presently went her troubled way home, going over and over what she had heard and wondering if she ought to tell Miss Marigold. Dear, pretty, sweet little Miss Marigold, who always had a kind word for her and a smile and never scolded when she broke a trinket cleaning her dressing table! Mean woman, calling that pretty child a “rowdy girl.” Maggie’s blood boiled.