Marjorie Dean, High School Freshman

by Josephine Chase

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE PEOPLE OF THE LITTLE GRAY HOUSE

  Intent upon their music, neither the singer nor the two men wereimmediately aware of the presence of another person in the room.

  "Oh, that we two were lying Under the churchyard sod,"

  sang Constance, voicing the pent-up longing of Kingsley's tenderlyregretful words and Nevin's wistful setting, while the violin sang asubdued, pensive obligato.

  Marjorie stood very still, her gaze fastened upon Constance. The quaintlittle boy stared at Marjorie with an equally intent interest. Thus, asConstance began the last line the earnest, compelling regard of thebrown eyes caused her own to be turned toward Marjorie.

  "Oh!" she ejaculated in faltering surprise. "Where--where did you comefrom? What made you come here?"

  There was mingled amazement, consternation and embarrassment in thequestion. The white-haired pianist swung round on his stool, and the oldman with the violin raised his head and regarded the unexpected visitorout of two mildly inquiring blue eyes.

  "I'm sorry," began Marjorie, her cheeks hot with the shame of beingunwelcome. "I suppose I ought not to have come, but----"

  Constance sprang to her side and catching her hands said contritely,"Forgive me, dear, and please don't feel hurt. I--you see--I neverinvite anyone here--because--well, just because we are so poor. Ithought you wouldn't care to come and so----"

  "I've always wanted to come," interrupted Marjorie, eagerly. "I don'tthink you are poor. I think you are rich to have this wonderful music. Inever dreamed you could sing, Constance. What made you keep it asecret?"

  "No one ever liked me well enough to care to know it until you came,"returned Constance simply. "I meant to tell you, but I kept on puttingit off."

  While the conversation went on between the two girls the one old man wasgoing over a pile of ragged-edged music on the piano, while the otherwas industriously engaged with a troublesome E string.

  "Father, Uncle John!" called Constance, gently, "come here. I want youto meet my friend Marjorie Dean."

  Both musicians left their self-appointed tasks and came forward.

  Marjorie gave her soft little hand to each in turn, and they bowed overit with almost old-style courtesy. She looked curiously at Constance'sfather. His daughter did not in any way resemble him. His was the faceof a dreamer, rather thin, with clean-cut features and dark eyes thatseemed to see past one and into another world of his own creation. Inspite of his white hair he was not old. Not more than forty-five, or,perhaps fifty, Marjorie decided. The other man was much older, sixty atleast. He was very thin, and his gentle face wore a pathetically vacantexpression that brought back to Marjorie the rush of bitter wordsConstance had poured forth on the day when she had declined to befriends. "We take care of an old man who people say is crazy, and folkscall us Bohemians and gypsies and even vagabonds."

  "I came here to see if Constance could go to the theatre with usto-night," explained Marjorie, rather shyly. "No, thank you, I won't sitdown. I promised mother I'd hurry home."

  "It is very kind in you to ask my daughter to share your pleasure," saidConstance's father, his somber face lighting with a smile that remindedMarjorie of the sun suddenly bursting from behind a cloud. "I shouldlike to have her go."

  "Have her go," repeated the thin old man, bowing and beaming.

  "Is there a band at the theatre?" piped a small, solemn voice.

  Marjorie smiled down into the earnest, upraised face of the little boy.

  "Oh, yes, there is a big, big band at the theatre."

  "Then take me, too," returned the child calmly.

  "No, no," reproved Constance gently, "Charlie can't go to-night."

  A grieved look crept into the big black eyes. Without further words thequaint little boy limped over to the old man, whom Constance hadaddressed as Uncle John, and hid behind him.

  Forgetting formality, tender-hearted Marjorie sprang after him. Sheknelt beside him and gathered him into her arms. He made no resistance,merely regarded her with wistful curiosity.

  "Listen, dear little man," she said, "you and Constance and I will go tothe place where the big band plays some Saturday afternoon, and we'llsit on the front seat where you can see every single thing they do.Won't that be nice?"

  The boy nodded and slipped his tiny hand in hers. "I'm going to play inthe band when I grow up," he confided. "Connie can go to-night if shepromises to tell me all about it afterward."

  "You dear little soul," bubbled Marjorie, stroking his thick hair thatfell carelessly over his forehead and almost into his bright eyes.

  "I'll tell you all about everything, Charlie," promised Constance.

  "That means you will go," cried Marjorie, joyfully, rising from thefloor, the child's hand still in hers.

  "Yes, I will," returned Constance hesitatingly, "only--I--haven'tanything pretty to wear."

  "Pretty to wear," repeated Uncle John faithfully.

  "Never mind that," reassured Marjorie. "Just wear a fresh white blousewith your blue suit. I'm sure that will look nice."

  "Will look nice," agreed Uncle John so promptly, that Marjorie startedslightly, then, noting that Constance seemed embarrassed, she noddedgenially at the old man, who smiled back like a pleased child.

  Remembering her mother's injunction, Marjorie took hasty leave of theStevens family and set off for home at a brisk pace. Her thoughts wereas active as her feet. She had seen enough in the last fifteen minutesto furnish ample food for reflection, and she now believed sheunderstood her friend's strange reserve, which at times rose like a wallbetween them. What strange and yet what utterly delightful people theStevens were! They really did remind one a little of gypsies. And what aqueer room she had been ushered into by the odd little boy namedCharlie! She smiled to herself as she contrasted her mother's homelike,yet orderly living-room with the room she had just left, which evidentlydid duty as a hall, living-room, music-room and also a playroom forlittle Charlie. There were hats and coats and musical instruments, pileupon pile of well-thumbed music, and numerous dilapidated playthingsthat bore the marks of too ardent treasuring, all scattered about inreckless confusion. No wonder Constance had fought shy ofacquaintanceships which were sure to ripen into schoolgirl visits. PoorConstance! How dreadful it must be to have to keep house, cook the mealsand try to go to school! The Stevenses seemed to be very poor ineverything except music. She wondered how they lived. Perhaps the twomen played in orchestras. Still she had never heard anything about themin school, where news circulated so quickly.

  "I'm going to ask Constance to tell me all about it," she decided, asshe skipped up the front steps. "Perhaps I can help her in some way."

  Constance rang the Deans' bell at exactly half past seven o'clock. Herblue eyes were sparkling with joyous light, and her usually grave mouthbroke into little curves of happiness. It was to be a red-letter nightfor her.

  The play was a clean, wholesome drama of American home life in which theleading part was taken by a young girl, who appeared to be scarcelyolder than Marjorie and Constance. The latter sat like one entrancedduring the first act, and Marjorie spoke to her twice before she heard.

  "Constance," she breathed, "won't you please, please tell me all aboutit?"

  "About what?" counter-questioned the other girl, reddening.

  "About your father and your wonderful voice, and, oh, all there is totell."

  "Marjorie," the Mary girl's tones were strained and wistful, "do youreally think it is wonderful?"

  "You will be a great singer some day," returned Marjorie, simply.

  "Oh, do you believe that?" Constance clasped her hands in ecstasy. "Iwish to be--I hope to be. If I could only go away to New York city andstudy! Before we came here we lived in Buffalo. Father played in anorchestra there. He had a friend who taught singing and I studied withhim for a year. Then he died suddenly of pneumonia and right after thatfather fell on an icy pavement and broke his leg. By the time it waswell again another man had his place in the orchestra.
He had a fewpupils, and long before his leg was well he used to sit in a big chairand teach them. The money that they paid him for lessons was all we hadto live on."

  The rising of the curtain on the second act cut short the narrative.With "I'll tell you the rest later," Constance turned eager eyes towardthe stage.

  "Isn't it a beautiful play?" she sighed, when the act ended.

  "Lovely," agreed Marjorie; "now tell me the rest."

  "Oh, there isn't much more to tell. It was the last of March when fathergot hurt, but it was the middle of May before he was quite well again.Then summer came and most of his pupils went away and we grew poorer andpoorer. Just when we were the poorest the editor of a new musicalmagazine wrote him and asked him to write some articles. A friend offather's in New York told the editor about father and gave him ouraddress. We decided to move to a smaller city, where we could live morecheaply, and some of the musicians that father knew gave him a benefitconcert. The money from that helped us to move to Sanford, and fatherhas been writing articles off and on for the magazine ever since then.It's better for all of us to be here. Uncle John isn't quite like otherpeople. When he was a young man he studied to be a virtuoso on theviolin. He overworked and had brain fever just before he was to give hisfirst recital. After he got well he never played the same again. He hadspent all the money his father left him on his musical education, so hehad to find work wherever he could. He played the violin in differentorchestras, but he was so absent-minded that he couldn't be trusted.Sometimes he would go on playing after all the rest of the orchestra hadfinished, and then he began to repeat things after people.

  "When father first met him they were playing in the same theatreorchestra. One night a great tragedian was playing 'Hamlet,' and poorUncle John grew so interested that he said things after him as loud ashe could. The actor was dreadfully angry, and so was the leader of theorchestra. He made the poor old man leave the theatre. After that heplayed in other orchestras a little, but he couldn't be depended upon,so no one wanted to hire him.

  "Father did all he could to help him, but he grew queerer and queerer.Then he disappeared, and father didn't see him for a long while. Onecold winter night he found him wandering about the streets, so hebrought him to his room and he has been with father ever since. That wasyears ago, before father was married. He isn't really my uncle. I justcall him that. The musicians used to call him 'Crazy Johnny.' His nameis John Roland."

  Although Constance had averred that there wasn't "much to tell," thethird act interrupted her recital, and it was during the interval beforethe beginning of the last act that Marjorie heard the story of thefourth member of the Stevenses' household, little lame Charlie.

  "Charlie has been with us a little over four years," returned Constance,in answer to Marjorie's interested questions. "He is seven years old,but you would hardly believe it. His mother died when he was a tinybaby, and his father was a dreadful drunkard. He was a musician, too, aclarionet player. He let Charlie fall downstairs when he was only twoyears old and hurt his hip. That's why he's lame. His father used to goaway and be gone for days and leave the poor baby with his neighbors.Father found out about it and took Charlie away from him, and we've hadhim with us ever since."

  "It was splendid in your father to be so good to the poor old man andCharlie," said Marjorie, warmly.

  "Father is the best man in the world," returned Constance, with fondpride. "He is such a wonderful musician, too. He can play on the violinas well as the piano, and he teaches both. If only he could get plentyof work here in Sanford. He has a few pupils, and with the articles hewrites we manage to live, but the magazine is a small one and does notpay much for them. He has tried ever so many times to get into thetheatre orchestra, but there seems to be no chance for him. I thinkwe'll go somewhere else to live before long. Perhaps to a big cityagain. I'd love to stay here and go through high school with you, but Iam afraid I can't. I'm almost eighteen and I ought to work."

  "Oh, you mustn't think of leaving Sanford!" exclaimed Marjorie, insudden dismay. "What would I do without you? Perhaps things will bebrighter after a while. I am sure they will. Why couldn't yourfather----"

  But the last act was on, and she did not finish what had promised to bea suggestion. Nevertheless, a plan had taken shape in her busy mind,which she determined to discuss with her father and mother.

  As if to further her design they found Mr. Stevens waiting outside thetheatre for his daughter and Marjorie lost no time in presenting him toher father and mother. He greeted the Deans gravely, thanking them fortheir kindness to his daughter, with a fine courtesy that made a markedimpression on them, and after he had gone his way, a happy, smilingConstance beside him, Marjorie slipped her arms in those of her fatherand mother, and walking between them told Constance's story all overagain.

  "I think it is positively noble in Mr. Stevens to take care of that oldman and little Charlie, when they have no claim upon him," she finished.

  "He has a remarkably fine, sensitive face," said Mrs. Dean. "I supposelike nearly all persons of great musical gifts, he lacks the commercialability to manage his affairs successfully."

  "Don't you believe that if the people of Sanford only knew howbeautifully Mr. Stevens and the other man played together they mighthire them for afternoon teas and little parties and such things?" askedMarjorie, with an earnestness that made her father say teasingly, "Areyou going to enlist in his cause as his business manager?"

  "You mustn't tease me, General," she reproved. "I'm in dead earnest. Iwas just thinking to-night that Mr. Stevens ought to have an orchestraof his own. You know mother promised me a party on my birthday, andthat's not until January tenth. Why can't I have it the night beforeThanksgiving? That will be next Wednesday. Mr. Stevens and Mr. Rolandcan play for us to dance. A violin and piano will be plenty of music. Ifeverybody likes my orchestra, then someone will be sure to want to hireit for some of the holiday parties. Don't you think that a nice plan?"

  "Very," laughed her father. "I see you have an eye to business,Lieutenant."

  "You can have your party next week, if you like, dear," agreed Mrs.Dean, who made it a point always to encourage her daughter's generousimpulses.

  "Then I'll send my invitations to-morrow," exulted Marjorie. "Hurrah forthe Stevens orchestra! Long may it wave!" She gave a joyous skip thatcaused her father to exclaim "Steady!" and her mother to protest againstfurther jolting.

  "Beg your pardon, both of you," apologized the frisky lieutenant, givingthe arms to which she clung an affectionate squeeze, "but I simply hadto rejoice a little. Won't Constance be glad? I could never care quiteso much for Constance as I do for Mary, but I like her next best. She'sa dear and we're going to be friends as long as we live."

  But clouds have an uncomfortable habit of darkening the clearest skiesand even sworn friendships are not always timeproof.