Her one sorrowful concern in life was the knowledge that Marjorie “couldn’t see old Hal for a minute.” She would have tried to further Hal’s unflourishing cause with Marjorie, but there seemed to be no way of accomplishment. She knew only too well Marjorie’s utter lack of sentimental interest in Hal; her rooted aloofness to “love” as Hal had hoped she might experience it. “A regular stony heart,” Jerry had secretly characterized her.
Jerry had shrewdly divined for herself the true state of affairs between the two. Neither had ever spoken intimately to her of the other. Nevertheless when Marjorie had left Severn Beach for her midsummer journey to Hamilton during the summer previous, Jerry had been convinced that she had “turned Hal down.” She had wondered then, and since, how Marjorie could fail to love her big, handsome brother—not because he had been devoted to her since their first meeting—but for himself.
The expression of good-natured amusement which had visited her face during the reading of Helen’s letter remained until she had read Hal’s note several times. Then concern replaced it, making her round face very solemn. She shot a covert glance at Marjorie who was deep in Mary Raymond’s letter. She had already devoured the contents of her General’s and Captain’s letters. Both had been comparatively short and loving inquiries as to whether they might hope for her “gracious presence at Castle Dean over Thanksgiving.” Neither superior officer had made a point of asking her to come home. Unselfishly, as ever, they deferred to her judgment.
Marjorie had gulped down her rising emotions as she had read and realized afresh her father’s and mother’s breadth of spirit. She had taken up Mary’s letter, feeling that she must go home at all events for the holiday. Mary had the long and astonishing confidence to impart that she had fallen in love, was engaged to be married the following September and that her engagement was soon to be announced at a formal luncheon to be given for her by her mother.
“Oh, Jerry!” Marjorie looked up brightly from her letter. “Mary’s going to be married. I’ll tell you all she writes about the great event while we are getting ready for bed. I haven’t time now.” Her hands were busy opening the letter from Constance as she spoke. Again she dropped into silence and the perusal of Connie’s letter. “Isn’t it too bad?” she soon cried out. “Connie and Laurie are not going to be in Sanford for Thanksgiving. Laurie promised a composer friend of his to be present at the first performance of his new opera ‘The Azure Butterfly.’ He and Connie are going to New York.”
“That settles it for me. There’ll be one distinguished mug missing on the campus. I’m going home for Turkey Day.” Marjorie’s news concerning Constance and Laurie had crystalized Jerry’s wavering resolve to go to Sanford. “Poor old Hal! A fine time he’d have with all of us away!”
A swift flood of crimson deepened the glow in Marjorie’s cheeks; rose even to her white forehead. She stared self-consciously at Jerry for an instant. Without a word she laid down Connie’s letter and took up the envelope addressed to her in Charlie Stevens’ straggling hand.
First exploration of its contents and she broke into a low amused laugh: “Do listen to this, Jerry,” she begged.
Jerry raised her eyes from Hal’s letter, at which she had been soberly staring. She was provoked with herself for having mentioned Hal to Marjorie as an object for sympathy.
Occupied with the letter from Charlie, Marjorie did not notice Jerry’s gloomy features. Mirthfully she read: