Marjorie Dean, High School Junior

“She hasn’t changed a bit,” was Marjorie’s inward judgment, as she turned her gaze upon the rows of students; called together again to continue their earnest march along the road of education. Her heart thrilled with pride as she noted how few vacant seats the great study hall held. The freshman class was unusually large. She noticed there were a number of girls she had never before seen. It looked, too, as though none of last year’s freshmen had dropped out of school. As for the juniors, they were all present, even to Mignon La Salle. But how decidedly grown-up the French girl looked! Her black curls were arranged in an ultra-fashionable knot at the back of her head that made her appear several years older than she really was. Her gown, too, an elaborate affair of sage green pongee, with wide bands of heavy insertion, added to her years. She looked very little like a school girl Marjorie thought.

Lost in contemplation of the new Mignon, she was rudely reminded of the fact that she was staring by Mignon herself. Their eyes meeting, Mignon made a face at Marjorie by way of expressing her candid opinion of the girl she disliked. Marjorie colored and hastily looked away, amused rather than angry at this display of childishness. It hardly accorded with her grown-up air. She had not realized that she had been guilty of staring. Her mind was intent on trying to recall something she had heard in connection with the French girl that now eluded her memory. Shrugging her shoulders she dismissed it as a matter of small consequence.

As the members of the four classes were still vacillating between which subjects to take up and which to exclude from their programs of study, classes that morning were to mean a mere business of assembling in the various recitation rooms, there to receive the first instructions from the special teachers before settling down to the usual routine of lessons.

For her junior program, Marjorie had decided upon third year French, English Literature, Cæsar’s Commentaries and civil government. As she had recently begun piano lessons, she had wisely concluded that, with piano practice, four subjects would keep her sufficiently busy. Her interest in music had developed as a result of her association with Constance Stevens. She yearned to be able some day to accompany Constance’s beautiful voice on the piano. Mrs. Dean had long deplored the fact that Marjorie was not interested in becoming at least a fair pianist. Herself a musician of considerable skill, she believed it a necessary accomplishment for girls and was delighted when Marjorie had announced that she wished to begin lessons on the piano.

By reciting English literature during the first period of the morning and French the second, the last period before noon was hers for study. Civil government and Cæsar recitations the first two periods of the afternoon left her the last hour of that session free. She had always tried to arrange her subjects to gain that coveted afternoon period, and now she felt especially pleased at being able to also reserve the last period of the morning for study.

It was while she sat in her old place in French class, listening to the obsequiously polite adjurations of Professor Fontaine, that she remembered the still undelivered note from her mother to Miss Archer. “I’m a faithless messenger,” was her rueful thought. “I’ll hurry to Miss Archer’s office with Captain’s note the minute class is over.” Contritely patting a fold of her lace-trimmed blouse where she had tucked the letter for safe-keeping, Marjorie gave strict attention to the earnestly-exhorting instructor.

“Eet ees een thees class that we shall read the great works of the incomparable French awthors,” he announced with an impressive roll of r’s. “Eet ees of a truth necessary that you should become familiar weeth them. You moost, therefore, stoody your lessons and be thus always preepaired. Eet ees sad when my pupeels come to me with so many fleemsy excuses. Thees year I shall nevaire accept them. I most eenseest that you preepaire each day the lesson for the next.”

Marjorie smiled to herself. The long-suffering professor was forever preaching a preparedness, which it never fell to his lot to see diligently practised by the majority of his pupils. Personally, she could not be classed among the guilty. Her love of the musical language kept her interest in it unflagging, thereby making her one of the professor’s most dependable props.

The recitation over, she paused to greet the odd little man, who received her with delight, warmly shaking her hand. “Eet ees a grand plaisir thus to see you again, Mees Marjorie,” he declared. “Ah, I am assured that you at least weel nevaire say ‘oonpreepaired.’”

“I’ll try not to. I’m ever so glad to see you, too, Professor Fontaine.” After a brief exchange of pleasantries she left the class room a trifle hurriedly and set off to call on Miss Archer.

Entering the spacious living room office, she was forcibly reminded that Marcia Arnold’s high school days had ended on the previous June. The pretty room was quite deserted. Marjorie sighed as she glanced toward the vacant chair, drawn under the closed desk that had been Marcia’s. How much she would miss her old friend. Since that day long past on which they had come to an understanding, she and Marcia had found much in common. Marjorie sighed regretfully, wondering who Miss Archer’s next secretary would be.

As there was no one about to announce her, she walked slowly toward the half-closed door of the inner office. Pausing just outside, she peeped in. Her eyes widened with surprise as she caught sight of an unfamiliar figure. A tall, very attractive young woman stood before the principal’s desk, busily engaged in the perusal of a printed sheet of paper which she held in her hand. It looked as though Miss Archer had already secured someone in Marcia’s place.

“May I come in, please?” Marjorie asked sweetly, halting in the doorway.

The girl at the desk uttered a faint exclamation. The paper she held fluttered to the desk. A wave of color dyed her exquisitely tinted skin as she turned a pair of large, startled, black eyes upon the intruder. For a second the two girls eyed each other steadily. Marjorie conceived a curious impression that she had seen this stranger before, yet it was too vague to convey to her the slightest knowledge of the other’s identity.

“You are Miss Archer’s new secretary, are you not?” she asked frankly. “You can tell me, perhaps, where to find her. I have a note to deliver to her personally.”

A quick shade of relief crossed the other girl’s suddenly flushing face. Smiling in self-possessed fashion, she said, “Miss Archer will not be back directly. I cannot tell you when she will return.”

“I think I’ll wait here for her,” decided Marjorie. “I have no recitation this period.”

The stranger’s arched brows arched themselves a trifle higher. “As you please,” she returned indifferently. She again turned her attention to the papers on the desk.

Seating herself on the wide oak bench, Marjorie took speculative stock of the new secretary. “What a stunning girl,” was her mental opinion. “She’s dressed rather too well for a secretary, though,” flashed across her as she noted the smart gown of white china silk, the very cut of which pointed to the work of a high-priced modiste. “I suppose she’s getting examination papers ready for the new pupils. I wonder why she doesn’t sit down.”

As she thus continued to cogitate regarding the stranger, the girl frowned deeply at another paper she had picked up and swung suddenly about. “Are you just entering high school?” she asked with direct abruptness.

“Oh, no.” Marjorie smilingly shook her head. “I am a junior.”

“Are you?” The stranger again lost herself in puzzled contemplation of the paper. Hearing an approaching footfall she made a quick move toward the center of the office, raising her eyes sharply to greet a girl who had come in quest of Miss Archer. Promptly disposing of the seeker, she returned to her task. Several times after that she was interrupted by the entrance of various students, whom she received coolly and dismissed with, “Not here. I don’t know when Miss Archer will return.” Marjorie noted idly that with every fresh arrival, the young woman continued to move well away from the desk.

Marjorie watched her in fascination. She was undoubtedly beautiful in a strangely bold fashion, but apparently very cold and self-centered. She had received the students who had entered the office with a brusqueness that bordered on discourtesy. Two or three of them, whom Marjorie knew, had greeted her in friendly fashion, at the same time mutely questioning with uplifted brows as to whom this stranger might be.

“This problem in quadratic equations is a terror,” the girl at the desk suddenly remarked, her finger pointing to a row of algebraic symbols on the paper she was still clutching. “Algebra’s awfully hard, isn’t it?”

“I always liked it,” returned Marjorie, glad of a chance to break the silence. “What is the problem?”

“Come here,” ordered the other girl. “I don’t call that an easy problem. Do you?”

Marjorie rose and approached the desk. The stranger handed her the paper, indexing the vexatious problem.

“Oh, that’s not so very hard,” was Marjorie’s light response.

“Can you work it out?” came the short inquiry, a note of suppressed eagerness in the questioner’s voice.

“Why, I suppose so. Can’t you?”

“I was trying it before you came in just for fun. I’ve forgotten my algebra, I guess. I don’t believe I got the right result. It’s rather good practice to review, isn’t it?”

“She must be a senior,” sprang to Marjorie’s mind. Aloud, she agreed that it was. “I ought not to have forgotten my algebra,” she added. “It’s only a year since I finished it.”

“See if you think I did this right, will you? I’m curious to know.” The stranger thrust into her hand a second paper, covered with figures.

Marjorie inspected it, feeling only mildly interested. “No; you made a mistake here. It goes this way. Have you a pencil?”

The pencil promptly forthcoming, the obliging junior seated herself at a nearby table and diligently went to work. So busy was she that she failed to note the covert glances which her companion sent now and then toward the door. But, during the brief space of time in which Marjorie was engaged with the difficult equation, no one came. Altogether she had not been in the office longer than fifteen minutes. To her it seemed at least half an hour.

“Here you are.” She tendered the finished work to the other girl, who seized it eagerly with a brief, “Thank you. I can see where I made my mistake when I have time to compare the two.” With a smile, which Marjorie thought a trifle patronizing, she carelessly nodded her gratitude. Laying the printed examination sheet on a pile of similar papers, she placed a weight upon them and walked gracefully from the office, taking with her the two sheets of paper, bearing the results of her own and Marjorie’s labor.

Another fifteen minutes went by. Still no one came, except a student or two in quest of Miss Archer. Marjorie decided that she would wait no longer. She would come back again that afternoon, before the second session opened. It was almost noon. Were she to return to the study hall just then, it meant to court the caustic rebuke of Miss Merton. The locker room offered her a temporary refuge. Accordingly, she wended her steps toward it.

“Where were you that last period?” demanded Jerry Macy, coming up behind her as she stood at the mirror adjusting her rose-weighted hat.

“Oh, Jerry! How you startled me.” Marjorie swung about. “I was up in Miss Archer’s office.”

“So soon?” teased Jerry, putting on a shocked expression. “I am surprised.”

“Don’t be so suspicious,” responded Marjorie, adopting Jerry’s bantering tone. “I had a note, if you please, from Captain, to deliver to Miss Archer. I saw the new secretary, too.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Jerry. “You must have only thought you saw her. So far as I know Miss Archer hasn’t secured a secretary yet.”

“But she must have,” Marjorie insisted. “There was a tall girl in her office when I went there. She must surely be the girl to take Marcia’s place, for she was standing at Miss Archer’s desk, going over some papers.”

“That’s funny. What did she look like? You said she was tall?”

“Yes; tall and very pretty. She had big, black eyes and perfectly gorgeous auburn hair – ” Marjorie broke off with a puzzled frown. Her own words had a curious reminiscent ring. Someone else had said the very same thing about – Who had said it, and about whom had it been said?

“Now I know you didn’t see Miss Archer’s new secretary,” cried Jerry in triumph. “There’s only one person that can answer to your description. She’s that Rowena Farnham I told you about, Mignon’s side partner. I told you she was going to enter the sophomore class. She was probably waiting for Miss Archer herself. She has to try her exams, I suppose.”

“But what was she doing at Miss Archer’s desk?” asked Marjorie sharply. “Why did she answer me and make me think she was the secretary? She told several other girls that Miss Archer was out!”

“Search me,” replied Jerry inelegantly. “If she’s much like Mignon it’s hard to tell what she was up to. Believe me, they’re a precious pair of trouble-makers and don’t you forget it.”

“I ought to have recognized her,” faltered Marjorie. A curious sense of dread had stolen over her. “Don’t you remember Mary described her almost as I did just now, that day you came to see us, when first you got back to Sanford?”

“Well, nobody’s going to kill you because you didn’t, are they?” inquired Jerry with a grin. “What’s the matter? What makes you look so solemn?”

“Oh, I was just wondering,” evaded Marjorie. Outwardly only slightly ruffled, tumult raged within. She had begun to see clearly what had hitherto been obscure and the revelation was a severe shock. All she could hope was that what she now strongly suspected might not, after all, be true.