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Updated: June 27, 2025
"This is my second year at Hope, and I want to tell you right now that Charity rules in the Douglas Dormitory. If you can get her on Marcelle's side, the other girls will trot along like little lambkins." "Do you suppose," Kit leaned forward impressively, as she sprang her plan, "do you suppose Charity would loan her room for a Founders' Tea?" "A Founders' Tea," repeated Anne. "What's that?"
By inference rather than plain statement, for a deft waiter was constantly coming in and out, he supplied Hermione with glimpses of his own career, and ascertained from her that she had secured Marcelle's services through the good offices of a lady who was a fellow-passenger on the ship. "She comes from New Orleans, but, notwithstanding her name, she does not speak French," said Hermione.
I replied, a little out of humour, for I had noticed Marcelle's confusion, "but such omissions are easily rectified when their need is felt."
For Marcelle would deposit the Doherty letter in Eileen's compartment in the curtained row of little niches where one kept one's work-bag, atlas, and other educational reserves or Eileen would slip the reply into Marcelle's, and there it would lie, exposed to inspectorial ransacking, till such times as Eileen or Marcelle could transfer it to her bosom.
She was positively dismayed by consciousness of the imminent disclosure, yet too well-bred even to appear to be withholding confidences. "You have won Marcelle's golden opinion already," she said. "But let us talk of something else." For the moment they were alone, and she glanced at the watch on her wrist. "Have you made any plans?" she inquired, and her voice was low, yet sufficiently composed.
Talk about life buoys for drowning men and rich uncles from California in plays who ever heard of anyone wanting a nice husband and getting him in such a way!" Marcelle's eyes were positively glistening. And these two now were not mistress and maid, but a pair of highly strung women, and young ones at that. "You have lost your wits in this night's excitement, Marcelle," said Hermione.
While thus pleasantly occupied, time slipped away unnoticed, until Marcelle's aunt arrived. Who was there in our native town who did not know Aunt Roubert? The very mention of her name was sufficient to make one gay. Left a widow in early life, and in involved circumstances, she had, by dint of activity, order, and economy, entirely extricated herself from pecuniary difficulty.
In the contents of this bureau, were united all the touching and pleasing reminiscences of her former life; they formed Marcelle's poetic archives, whither she often retired in her hours of solitude. Often, on my return from business, I found her here, smiling, and seemingly perfumed by memories of the past.
For Marcelle imagined an amour of the darkest dye, and could not understand Eileen's calmness any more than Eileen could understand Marcelle's romantic palpitations alternating with suggestive sniggerings. But when Marcelle was at length separated from Eileen by a suspicious management, a much more breathless plan was necessary.
"I refuse to vilify happy chance in the name of black despair. But here is Marcelle, and slaves bearing packages. I hear thuds in the next room." And, indeed, the waiter entering just then with coffee, Marcelle's voice reached them sharply from the corridor: "Now, you boy, be careful with that hat-box! Do you think you are an express man, or what?"
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