Marjorie Dean Part 22

"That's the way to talk," approved Mignon. She had kept but few friends among the soph.o.m.ores since that fatal practice game and she did not intend to lose Mary from her diminished circle. Besides, she was certain that the Deans, one and all, did not approve of Mary's friends.h.i.+p with her and it accorded her supreme pleasure to annoy them.

"I'm going to give a fancy dress party two weeks from Friday night," she went on, with an abrupt change of subject. "Nearly all the girls I'm intending to invite are juniors and seniors. We'll have a glorious time.

I don't have to strip our living room of furniture for a place to dance.

I have a _real_ ballroom in my home. I'll send you an invitation in a day or two."

Surely enough, three days after Mignon's announcement the invitation was duly delivered to Mary through the mail. She read it listlessly. She was not keen about attending the party. Marjorie merely smiled when Mary showed her the invitation and briefly announced her intention of going.

She graciously offered the Snow White costume she had worn at the masquerade of the previous Spring. Mary declined it coldly. She had not forgotten Mignon's taunts. Since then she had kept strictly to herself, steadily refusing Marjorie's polite invitations to accompany her here and there. Earlier in the year Marjorie would have grieved in secret over this frostiness, but Marjorie had hardened her gentle heart and now fancied that Mary's movements were of small concern to her. And so the wall of misunderstanding towered higher and higher.

Mrs. Dean willingly helped Mary plan a cunning little girl costume, and when on the night of the party she entered the living room in obedience to her Captain's call, "Come here and let us see how you look, Mary," a lump rose in Marjorie's throat. In her short, white, embroidered frock, with its Dutch neck and wide, blue ribbon sash, she looked precisely like the pretty child that she had been when she and Marjorie played "house" together in the Raymonds' backyard. The blue silk stockings and heelless, blue kid slippers emphasized the babyish effect of her costume, and Marjorie had hard work to keep back her tears. But Mary could not read that sudden rush of emotion in the calm, uncritical face which Marjorie turned to her.

Mignon had sent her runabout for Mary and it was a trifle after eight o'clock when the La Salle's chauffeur drove up the wide, handsome driveway to Mignon's home. It was an unusually mild evening in April and as they neared the port-cochere, a slim figure in gypsy dress ran down the steps. "I've been watching for you," called Mignon, as Mary stepped from the runabout. "The musicians are here and so are most of the girls.

I can't imagine why the boys don't come. Only six have appeared, so far.

We've had one dance," she went on crossly. "Some of the girls had to dance together. Wasn't that horrid? Take off your cloak and let me see your costume. It's sweet."

The chauffeur had disappeared and the two girls stood for an instant at the foot of the steps.

Advancing suddenly out of the darkness marched a st.u.r.dy little figure.

Under its arm was thrust a diminutive violin case. "How do you do?" it greeted with a quaint, bobbing bow. "I comed to play in the band."

With a quick exclamation of surprise, Mary Raymond darted toward the tiny youngster. "Charlie Stevens!" she gasped. "What are you doing away over here after dark?"

"I comed to play in the band," repeated Charlie with a jubilant wave of his violin case that almost sent it hurtling from his baby fingers.

"Uncle John comed and so I comed, too."

Mary knelt on the driveway and gathered him into her round, young arms.

"Listen to Mary, dear little boy. Did Charlie run away?" She had heard from Marjorie of Charlie's frequent attempts to sally forth to conquer the world with his violin.

The child's sensitive face clouded. His lip quivered. "Connie says I have to always tell the truth," he wailed. "I runned away because I have to play in the big band. A man comed to see Uncle John this afternoon. I heard him talk about the band. Uncle John comed to play in it, so I comed, too. Only he didn't see me. I kept behind him till he got to the gate. Then after a while I comed, too!"

Mignon La Salle stood watching the wailing aspirant for the "big band"

with frowning eyes. "I suppose this ridiculous child belongs to those Stevens," she sneered.

"Ain't a 'diclus child," contradicted Charlie with dignity. "I'm a mesishun. I can play the fiddle. I like Mary. I don't like you."

"I have heard that this Stevens boy was an idiot. Now I believe it,"

snapped Mignon. "I suppose I'll have to take him in until some one comes after him. I didn't know his uncle was to be one of the musicians. If I had, I would have made the leader hire some other man. I sha'n't tell his uncle that he's here. He's hired to play for my dance, not to waste his time taking a simpleton home. It's a perfect nuisance."

Her long hoop ear-rings swung and shook with the vehemence of her displeasure.

Mary Raymond's face changed from red to white as she listened to the French girl's callous speech. A lover of all children, she could not endure the slight put upon this tiny boy. She straightened up with an alacrity that nearly threw Charlie off his balance. Her blue eyes flashed with righteous wrath. "How can you be so harsh with this cunning boy?" she cried. "He isn't an idiot or a simpleton! He's as bright as--as----" (courtesy conquered) "as any child of his age. Why, he's only a baby. He's not going into your house, either, to wait for his family to find him. He's going home now, and I'm going to take him."

"You can't go very far in that short dress and those thin slippers,"

mocked Mignon. "Don't be a silly. Bring him in, I say, and hurry. I must go back to my guests."

"Please go to them," Mary spoke in icily dignified tones. "As for me, I have my cloak." She held forth one bare arm on which swung her long, gray evening cape. "I should never forgive myself if I neglected this little tot. I'm sorry to be so rude, but I can't help it. I'm going now.

Good night. Come, Charlie." Wrapping her cloak about her, Mary gently disengaged the violin case from Charlie's clutch, tucked it under one arm and took firm hold of the youngster's hand. Charlie was still regarding Mignon's swaying ear-rings with childish fascination.

"You are a orful naughty girl," he pouted reproachfully.

"If you leave me now to take that impudent child home, I'll never speak to you again," threatened Mignon, her black eyes snapping.

"Very well. You may do as you please," was Mary's laconic response over her shoulder. She had already started down the driveway with her venturesome charge. The little boy had been momentarily awed into silence at Mignon's menacing features.

"She's a cross girl," he observed calmly, as he marched along beside Mary, "but we don't care, do we?"

"_No_, we _don't_," came emphatically from Mary's lips. And she meant it.

CHAPTER XXII

FACE TO FACE WITH HERSELF

Although Mary Raymond had deliberately snapped the chain that bound her to Mignon La Salle, she now found herself confronted by a far more difficult task. How was she to return little Charlie to Gray Gables without meeting Constance Stevens or another member of her family? It was not yet nine o'clock. It was, therefore, barely possible that Charlie had not been missed. Perhaps Constance and her aunt were not at home. It stood to reason that if they had been, Charlie would never have succeeded in slipping away and following John Roland to his evening's a.s.signment.

Once outside the La Salle's gate, Mary paused uncertainly. Charlie tugged impatiently at her hand. "Come on, Mary. Take Charlie home," he demanded.

Apparently unmindful of the child's presence, Mary stood still, staring thoughtfully up and down the moonlit street. It was an unusually mild night for that time of year, and the ground was bare of snow. March was in a deceptive, springlike mood, smiling and sunny by day, with the merest touch of snappiness by night. Nevertheless, it was scarcely an occasion for a walk in thin kid slippers and silk stockings, and Mary s.h.i.+vered slightly as she stood there trying to decide what was to be done.

"Listen to Mary, Charlie boy," she began suddenly, bending down and looking seriously into the child's bright, black eyes. "Where were Connie and Auntie when you ran away?"

"_They_ runned away from Charlie," was the prompt reply, given with an aggrieved pout. "Charlie wanted to go, too, and Connie said 'no.' They wented to the the'ter where the band plays all the time."

"And where was nurse?"

"She wented away, too, but Connie didn't know it. She thought Charlie didn't know, either. But she told Bessie, and Charlie heard."

"So, that is the reason," murmured Mary. Then she said to Charlie, "If Mary takes you home will you promise her something?"

"Yes," nodded Charlie.

"Then promise Mary that you won't tell anyone you ran away, or that Mary brought you home."

"Aren't you going to tell Connie that Charlie was a naughty boy?" came the anxious question.

"No, not unless someone sees Charlie when he goes home and asks about it."

"Then Charlie won't tell, either," was the calm response. The boy was proving himself anything but a simpleton.

"All right. Now we must hurry." Mary took firm hold of the tiny hand and the two started for Gray Gables as fast as the boy's small feet would permit of walking. It was not far from the La Salle's home to Gray Gables. Mary was thankful for that. Not in the least oppressed with a sense of his own shortcomings, Charlie kept up an animated conversation during the short walk. He even proposed stopping in the middle of the street to demonstrate for her special edification his prowess as a fiddler. Mary vetoed this proposal, however. She was bent on reaching Gray Gables as soon as possible.

Just inside the grounds she halted and viewed the house with speculative eyes. Lights gleamed from the hall, the living room, and from one upstairs window. Then, with Charlie's hand still in hers, she walked boldly up the driveway and mounted the steps. Within the s.h.i.+elding shadow of the veranda she paused for a long moment and listened. Turning to the child she laid her finger on her lips with a gesture of silence.

Charlie beamed understandingly. Mary's strange behavior was as interesting to him as though it were a new game invented for his pleasure. He entered completely into the spirit of it.

"Now," whispered the girl, "Mary is going to ring the bell and run away.

Charlie must stand still and wait until someone opens the door. If no one comes, Charlie must ring the bell again. And remember, he mustn't tell who brought him home!"