The Daring Twins

“It will help a great deal,” was the reply.

About this time Marion Randolph came home from college for the long vacation. She was the eldest daughter of the house, and about the same age as Phil and Phœbe. Judith, looking from her window, saw Marion on the lawn the morning after her arrival and noted her slender, angular form, her delicate, refined face and well-bred poise. She at once decided Marion would be a valuable acquaintance for Phœbe, and decided to bring the two girls together.

“Let us call on the Randolphs this afternoon,” she suggested to Phœbe. “Since they are recent arrivals at Riverdale it is really our duty to call upon them formally. They are likely to prove pleasant acquaintances.”

“I’ve really nothing fit to wear, Cousin Judith,” replied the girl.

The Little Mother examined Phœbe’s wardrobe and selected a simple, white gown. It needed mending in places, but Judith caught up the rents with her deft needle and added some pretty ribbons of her own to the costume. A season of dressmaking had already begun in the house, but Sue and Becky were most in need of respectable raiment, and so Phœbe’s turn had not yet arrived.

When, late in the afternoon, Miss Eliot and Phœbe Daring set out to make their call, there was nothing that the most critical could find fault with in their personal appearance. Phœbe had the reputation of being “the prettiest girl in Riverdale,” and seemed justly entitled to it that day, while Cousin Judith’s sweet face was sure to win approval anywhere.

Mrs. Randolph and her daughter Marion received their neighbors very graciously. The former was a languid, weary looking woman who had secluded herself in this little village in order to escape the demands of society and organized charities, which had nearly reduced her to a state of nervous prostration. Marion was an intelligent, active girl, with none of her younger sister’s assumption of airs and graces. She seemed to Phœbe to be perfectly frank and natural in her ways, possessing ideas that were healthy, broad and progressive. During the interview, Marion developed a liking for Phœbe that pleased Miss Eliot greatly.

“Come and see me,” said Phœbe, shyly, when about to depart. “We are such near neighbors that you can run in at any time.”

“I will, indeed,” was the ready promise, and Marion kept it faithfully.

Thereafter, there was seldom a day when the two girls were not together. Marion came most frequently to see Phœbe, for there was a certain air of conventional stiffness about the great house that both the girls felt and objected to. Sometimes, Doris came with her sister, and was turned over to the tender mercies of mischievous Becky, who teased her visitor in a shameful manner. Usually Doris was all unaware that she was being ridiculed for her primness and stilted expressions, but Cousin Judith was quick to comprehend the situation and took Becky to task for her impoliteness. With all her graceless ways the child was warm-hearted and easily influenced, for good as well as for evil, and she promised the Little Mother to treat Doris nicely and avoid offending her ears by using slangy expressions. Becky intended to keep her word thus given, but at times lapsed irrepressibly into the old ways, so that she was a source of constant anxiety to Judith.

Since Phœbe had chosen to make a friend of Marion, her twin was bound to follow her lead. Phil found the college girl a delightful comrade. He did not care much for girls, as a rule, excepting of course his own sisters, but Marion proved as frank and as keenly intelligent as any boy. She knew all about modern athletics, although too frail of physique to indulge in such sports herself. Likewise she had a fairly practical knowledge of business methods, politics, public institutions and reform movements, and talked well and interestingly upon all subjects of the day. Aspiring to become a poet, she read bits of original verse to her new friends which they considered so remarkable that it was a marvel to them she was not already famous.

“There is only one thing lacking about Marion,” Phil confided to his twin; “she lacks any sense of humor. Seems to me she can’t appreciate anything funny, at all. The only things she laughs at are the mistakes of other people. Isn’t it queer, when she’s so bright in all other ways?”

“I think,” returned Phœbe, musingly, “that is a characteristic of all the Randolphs. Doris and Allerton are the same way, and I’ve wondered if Mrs. Randolph was ever in her life amused enough to laugh aloud.”

“Marion is good company, though,” added Phil, “and I like her.”

“She’s splendid!” agreed Phœbe; “and her poetry reminds me so much of Mrs. Browning.”

“Me too,” he said, laughing. “I never can understand a word of it.”

Others called on Marion and she soon became a popular favorite in the village. Especially, was she attracted to Janet Ferguson, and as Janet was a warm friend of the Darings, this made it pleasant for all the young people. When the famous lawn party was given at the Randolph residence the occasion was one long remembered, for no such elaborate entertainment was ever before known in Riverdale.

The festivity was designed to celebrate Marion’s birthday, as well as to introduce her socially to the young folks of the town.

“Of course it cannot be very exclusive,” observed her mother, when the invitation list was being prepared; “otherwise you would have but a mere handful.”

“I do not wish to be exclusive here,” returned Marion, gravely. “My desire is to study character and human nature, to assist me in my literary work. One cannot write of humanity without knowing something of the rank and file, you see; and there are many respectable, if humble, families in Riverdale.”

Mrs. Randolph scanned the list critically.

“Is it possible that you intend to ask the entire family of Darings?” she inquired.

“Yes, dear. I am inviting Rebecca and Donald for Doris and Allerton, you see, and I cannot well leave out that little fairy elf, Sue. So they must all come.”

“Do you know, Marion, those Darings – the younger ones, I refer to – are very ill-bred children?”

“Their manners are not strictly conventional, I believe.”

“And their language is that of the slums.”

“But they have had no mother to guide them, poor things,” explained Marion. “At times they are very winning and companionable, and I am sure they will behave nicely at my lawn fête.”

“Very well, dear,” sighed the lady; “invite them if you wish to. This was once their home, you remember. After all, it would not be quite right to exclude the Darings from your little affair.”

It may have seemed a “little affair” in the eyes of the blasé society woman, but it was not so to the people of Riverdale, by any means. A brass band of fifteen pieces came from the city by the noon train, and their uniforms were so gorgeous as to create tremendous excitement. Tents had been erected upon the lawn and a force of extra servants employed to prepare and serve the refreshments. The ample grounds were crossed in every direction by strings of unique Japanese lanterns, and in the early evening there was to be dancing to the music of the band.

It was but natural that every young person in town who had received an invitation was filled with joyful anticipation. “From five until nine,” the cards read, and it was hard work for Cousin Judith to control the younger Darings until the hour arrived. Sue insisted upon being dressed directly after dinner, and when arrayed in her new muslin with the cherry ribbons she found such difficulty in keeping still that Judith was fearful Sue would ruin the frock before five o’clock. Rebecca had a new gown, too, and Donald a new suit of clothes. When, finally, the children observed several arrivals at the reception tent on the lawn opposite, which they had carefully watched all afternoon from the dining room window, Miss Eliot felt that she could restrain their impatience no longer and away they trooped across the road.

Marion had asked Phœbe and Janet to assist her to receive, for she did not know personally all whom she had invited, while the other girls were of course familiar with every young person in the village. There were no “regrets” that day, you may be sure, for the unusual occasion could not well be disregarded. Eric Spaythe came early, in an elaborate costume fresh from the tailor, and he paid especial attention to Marion whenever her duties left her disengaged. Al Hayden, Toby Clarke, Jed Hopkins and, in fact, every eligible youth in the village, assembled in bashful groups and looked nervously at the bevies of girls and upon their bewildering surroundings. In order to help Marion, Phil tried to “break the ice,” as he said, by bringing the boys and girls together, and when the band struck up a spirited twostep it relieved the strain to a wonderful degree.

Mrs. Randolph kept out of sight, indulgently viewing the scene from a window. Mr. Randolph had not appeared in Riverdale since he brought his family there and settled them in their new home. He was a busy man, with many extensive financial interests, and could not be away from Boston for very long at a time.

Donald, Becky and Sue had promptly joined Doris and Allerton, and as they were a little younger than the majority of Marion’s guests they formed a group of their own.

“It distresses me,” said Doris, plaintively, “to realize how many poor people are suffering, while we revel at this fête; and I cannot help thinking how many deserving families might be relieved from want by means of the money we are squandering to-day upon useless luxuries.”

“Aw, cut it out!” cried Becky, indignantly. “Do you want to spoil all our fun?”

“My sister is religiously inclined,” observed Allerton; “yet there is a place for everything, and this is not a funeral.”

“Oh, Allerton – how shocking!” exclaimed the girl.

“I don’t believe,” said Don, “you Randolphs would have spent a penny on the poor if you hadn’t given this party; so what’s the odds?”

It suddenly occurred to Becky that this wasn’t a proper topic of conversation under the circumstances, and might lead to a quarrel; so she turned the subject by asking:

“What’s in that red-and-white striped tent?”

“Lemonade and ices,” said Allerton. “Will you have some?”

“Sure thing!” was the reply, and away they went, to be served by a maid in a white cap and apron.

“Doesn’t it cost us anything?” inquired Sue, who found the lemonade extremely good.

“Course not,” returned Becky, helping herself again from the big bowl when the maid was not looking. “But if Doris had her way they’d collect a nickel a glass for charity, – the kind of charity that doesn’t help the poor a bit.”

“Let us go to the long tent, over there,” said Allerton, with eager patronage. “I’ll show you the big birthday cake and the tables all laid with favors and things. If we go in the back way no one will see us.”

Doris was not sure they were doing right to peep at the tables in advance, but as none of the others hesitated to follow her brother she decided to trail along after them.

It was, indeed, a pretty sight, and the Darings were awe-struck.

“When do we feed?” asked Don, hungrily.

“The collation is at half past six, I believe.”

“The what?”