Marjorie Dean, High School Senior

“Really, children, I think we’ve earned our Hallowe’en party to-night!” exclaimed Marjorie Dean, as in company with Jerry, Irma, Muriel, Susan Atwell and Constance they left the nursery, to which they had repaired after school for a last fond survey of their pet.

“Please hurry over to our house early,” requested Jerry. “This is to be a weird and awesome night when spirits walk abroad and witches ride the air on broomsticks. Don’t one of you dare to forget to bring a broom with you.”

“Very mysterious,” giggled Susan. “I suppose you’ve fixed up some awesome sights for our timid eyes. You’re awfully stingy not to tell us a thing about it beforehand. All we know is that we’re to wear black masks and black dominos, and each bring a broom.”

“All shall be revealed to you in due season.” Jerry raised a dramatic arm, then dropped it and grinned tantalizingly.

“Never mind,” consoled Marjorie. “We haven’t long to wait. It’s five o’clock now. Three hours more and we’ll be in the thick of weird, mysterious happenings.”

“Three hours is as long as three days when one’s curiosity is whetted to a sharp point,” laughed Irma. “Those queer, phosphorescent invitations of yours, Jerry, were enough to keep us guessing what the rest of the party would be like.”

“Some invitations,” chuckled Jerry. “The Crane put me on; I mean gave me the idea for them.”

“When mine came, I opened it and thought somebody had sent me a queer-looking bit of paper for a joke,” confessed Susan, “so I threw it in the waste basket. I had the pleasure of hunting through the basket for it the next day, after Marjorie had explained it to me.” This sheepish admission was followed by Susan’s inevitable giggle, and five voices immediately echoed it.

With the happy prospect of the grand opening of the nursery on the morrow and Jerry’s delightful Hallowe’en frolic that evening, the sextette of girls was in high spirits as they sauntered along in the sharp, October air. Marjorie could hardly remember a time when she had felt more utterly at peace with the world. A quiet happiness permeated her whole being, and she was filled with the sense of satisfaction which the performance of a good deed always brings.

Seven o’clock saw her slipping into the exquisite peachblow evening frock of shimmering silk which she was to wear to the party under her domino, nor could she be other than pleasantly elated at the story her mirror told her. Her curls arranged in a low, graceful knot at the back of her shapely head, her cheeks glowing with excitement and her brown eyes two pools of radiant light, Marjorie could not be blamed for taking a pardonable pride in her appearance. She heaved a soft little sigh of regret as she covered the glory of her new frock with a somber domino, and hid her witching face behind a black mask. Then she ran lightly downstairs, stopping in the hall to annex the new broom Delia had left there for her.

“I’m ready, Captain,” she called in deep, sepulchral tones, as she paused in the doorway of the living room where her mother sat reading.

Sight of the sinister figure and sound of the hollow voice startled Mrs. Dean briefly, as she glanced up from her book.

Marjorie’s merry laugh rang out as she hastily stripped off the concealing domino and mask. “I thought I could scare you,” she teased. “Now tell me that I look very gorgeous and kiss me good-bye, for I must hurry along to the land of spooks and witches.”

“Remember, fine feathers don’t make fine birds,” retaliated her mother, fond admiration of her pretty daughter in her sweeping survey of the dainty vision before her.

“That means I look specially nice,” translated Marjorie. “Thank you, Captain.” Holding the broom rifle fashion, she brought one hand to her forehead in brisk salute. “Now the gallant army is off duty for a pleasant evening. I hope I haven’t kept General waiting.” Marjorie hastily resumed her cloak and mask.

“Ask him,” smiled her mother as she accompanied her to the door. Lifting the flap of the mask she kissed Marjorie tenderly. “Have a good time, dear, and come home in good season.”

“What have we here!” exclaimed Mr. Dean in mock horror as a weird, black-robed figure, bearing the proverbial witch’s broom, advanced down the walk toward the automobile in which he was seated. “Must I show the white feather and flee from this ghastly apparition?”

“You must not,” emphasized a very human young voice. “Stand your ground or be court-martialed.”

“I won’t budge an inch. I prefer the company of shades, rather than lose my prestige as an invincible general,” flung back Mr. Dean valiantly.

Helping Marjorie to a seat beside him in the limousine, and carefully disposing the broom in the tonneau, they were soon speeding down the road to cover the short distance that lay between the homes of the two families. A continual ripple of most unspectre-like laughter proceeded from behind the black mask as they scudded along. Between Marjorie and her father the serious side of life seldom rose. Whenever they were together, they invariably behaved like two gleeful children out for a holiday.

“Now go and keep company with the other horrors of Hallowe’en,” was Mr. Dean’s parting comment as he set Marjorie down at the gate, kissed her and handed her the broom.

“Just watch me go,” she called back merrily, turning to flaunt the broom in fantastic salute as she flitted up the long walk to the dimly lighted house. “Things certainly have a ghostly look,” she decided as she rang the bell.

The next instant she uttered a sharp little cry as the door opened and a frisky imp in a tight-fitting suit of black seized her by the hand and hauled her inside. From the shadowy hall a tall sheeted form loomed up before her, giving vent to a deep groan. Before she could do more than gasp, her lively conductor had possessed himself of her broom, decorated it with a piece of wide blue ribbon, pinned a rosette of similar ribbon to her domino, both of which he snapped up from a tray held by the sheeted spectre. Then he whisked her into what had formerly been the Macys’ living room. It was now transformed into a huge cavern, dimly lighted by grinning Jack-o’-lanterns. Masked and black-garbed figures flitted about its spacious confines at will. In one corner of the room stood a tripod, from which hung a large kettle. Around the kettle danced three terrifying figures who might easily have been identified as the weird sisters who appeared to the ill-starred Macbeth.

Straight to the fatal witch rendezvous Marjorie was towed by her insistent guide. Pausing in her grotesque dance, one of the weird sisters seized a cup from a number of others which stood on a small table near the tripod. Flourishing it, she pounced upon a small ladle that stood upright within the utensil. Dipping it into the steaming contents of the kettle, she filled the cup and offered it to Marjorie. “Drink ye the witches’ deadly brew,” she croaked.

The “witches’ deadly brew” proved to be very excellent chicken bouillon, which did not come amiss after Marjorie’s ride in the cool autumn air. By the time she had finished it, her goblin conductor had scurried away to answer the ring of the door bell, leaving her to mingle with the other sinister shapes that wandered singly or in twos and threes about the room. As everyone was firmly bent on keeping his or her identity a secret, conversation languished among that mysterious company. It was comparatively easy to distinguish the masculine portion of the assemblage from the feminine, however, by reason of height and the mannish shoes that were worn by at least half of the dominoed guests.

For at least fifteen minutes after Marjorie’s arrival, the helpful imp was compelled to do constant duty at the front door, and the impromptu cavern soon overran with its strange, uncanny occupants. In the midst of their perambulations a reverberating peal of manufactured thunder rent the air and the zealous imp skipped into the room.

“Friends and fellow spooks,” he declaimed in a high, piping voice, “I am the humble servitor of the Spirit of Hallowe’en. Come with me and I will show you the Cavern of Illusion where she awaits you!”

The humble servitor pranced down the long hall to the Cavern of Illusion, once the back parlor, an eager crowd of somber-looking followers at his heels. It was an orderly rush, however, although the fell silence that had pervaded the company at first was now broken by murmurs of subdued speech and frequent giggles. The Cavern of Illusion was in absolute darkness except at one end, where a square of white, presumably a sheet, stretched itself in the form of a screen. A faint light from behind it caused it to stand out clearly against the surrounding blackness.

“The Spirit of Hallowe’en,” shrilled the imp, who had stationed himself close to the screen. Hardly had he spoken the words when a long roll of thunder sounded and a fantastic shape in the high-peaked hat and circular cloak that betokens the legendary witch of All Hallow’s night, leaped upon the screen. On one shoulder perched a black cat and in one hand she bore a broom stick. Making a sweeping curtsey, she disappeared from the screen, to reappear instantly minus cat and broomstick. Curtseying again, she began a dance, fantastic in the extreme, but singularly graceful. She dipped, whirled and swayed, using her cloak with pleasing effect, and ended the performance by apparently flying straight upward to disappear at the top of the screen.

The wild burst of ardent applause that followed her clever terpsichorean effort pointed to the fact that the masked audience was at least possessed of very human young throats. The Spirit of Hallowe’en declined, however, to respond to the frantic demonstration, and a moment later the imp’s falsetto tones made themselves heard above the din.

“Follow me to the Hall of Fate,” he ordered. “There the Three Weird Sisters tarry to wail the Chant of Destiny.”

This invitation conveyed the information that where the fateful kettle simmered under the guardianship of the weird three must undoubtedly be the Hall of Fate. The guests did not wait to follow, but made a bee-line for it, at least half of them reaching it ahead of their obliging master of ceremonies. Once they had gathered there the Weird Sisters entertained them with a spirited dance about the kettle, to the accompaniment of an unearthly chant, pitched in a minor key.

At the conclusion of it a terrific burst of thunder broke and the Hall of Fate became suddenly flooded with light.

“All aboard for the ball room!” shrieked the imp in a voice that strongly resembled that of Danny Seabrooke. “The Test of True Love will presently be held there.”

This astonishing statement raised a shout of laughter. The young folks needed no second urging, however, as they willingly mounted the two flights of stairs after the imp, who skipped nimbly ahead of them, while the Three Weird Sisters brought up the rear. The apartment used by Hal and Jerry for a ball room, when entertaining their friends, was situated on the third floor of the east wing of the house. It was especially large and airy, with a beautifully polished floor, and, therefore, well suited to the purpose. Jerry always referred to it as the “town hall” and took considerable pleasure in the possession of it.

Arriving in the ball room, the maskers found that the four musicians hired to play for the dancing were already at their post. Despite their curiosity as to what particular ordeal awaited them in the cause of true love, the enticing measures of a waltz sent the masculine portion of the company scurrying for partners. It was not until the fifth dance was over that the imp staggered into their midst, heavily laden with a freight of beribboned brooms. Depositing them in a corner he promptly disappeared, to return presently with a second load. By that time the sixth dance had ended, and the dancers were beginning to murmur concerning their masks, which were becoming rather too concealing for comfort. Then, too, nearly everyone had come into a fair knowledge regarding the identities of at least part of his or her companions.

It was, therefore, wholly to their liking when the ubiquitous imp marched to the center of the floor and declaimed in true Danny Seabrooke fashion: “Damsels of the Domino, please line up across the floor. The Test of True Love is about to begin.” His next order, “Knights of the Domino, your fiery steeds await you! Kindly march in line to the corner and select your steed, then find your partner for the evening!” evoked a tumult of laughter. The Test of True Love promised to be decidedly amusing.