Marjorie Dean, High School Junior

CHAPTER XIII – UNSEEN; UNKNOWN; UNGUESSED

Outside the school building Jerry Macy and Irma Linton were holding a patient vigil. Not permitted to witness the try-out they had declared their intention of waiting across the street for their friends. Confidently expecting that their wait would be long, they had set off for Sargent’s directly after school, there to while away at least a part of the time. It was twenty minutes after four when they returned to the school and determinedly perched themselves upon the top step of the long flight where they proposed to remain stationed until the try-out should be over. As ardent fans, they had a lively curiosity to know as soon as possible the results of the contest. They were also deeply concerned as to what had transpired between Marjorie and Miss Merton.

“Good gracious!” grumbled Jerry, as she frowningly consulted her wrist watch. “When do you suppose it will be over? It’s half-past five now. I hope – ”

“Hark!” Irma raised a warning hand. “I hear voices. Here they come at last.”

As she spoke the heavy door behind her swung open. One after another the contestants began issuing forth to unite into little groups as they passed down the steps to the street. Jerry and Irma were now on their feet eagerly watching for their friends. Jerry’s shrewd power of observation had already been put to good use. Thus far she glimpsed defeat in the faces of those who passed. Among them was Mignon La Salle. Her arm linked in that of Charlotte Horner, the French girl was carrying on a low-toned monologue, the very nature of which could be read in the stormy play of her lowering features.

Jerry gave Irma a significant nudge as Mignon switched past them without sign of recognition. Irma nodded slightly to show that she understood its import. She, too, had guessed that Mignon had not made the team.

“At last!” Jerry sighed relief, as Marjorie stepped across the threshold, followed by Susan, Muriel and Daisy Griggs. “What’s the good word?” She hailed.

“We are the real people,” boasted Muriel Harding, a throbbing note of triumph in her light tones. “Marjorie, Susan, Daisy and I made the team. The fifth girl is Rita Talbot. She was the only one of the blues chosen. Poor Harriet didn’t make it. Neither did Esther. Harriet’s been chosen as a sub, though. So has that queer little green-eyed Warner girl. She’s such a quiet mouse, I never even dreamed she could play basket ball. She can, though.” Muriel rattled off all this, hardly stopping to take breath.

“So dear Miss Merton changed her mind,” burst forth Jerry irrelevantly. “How long did she keep you, Marjorie? What did she say?” They had now progressed as far as the sidewalk and had halted there to talk.

Marjorie entered into brief details, giving Muriel the lion’s share of credit for her blunt explanation to Miss Archer. “If Muriel hadn’t spoken so plainly, Miss Archer might not have seen things in the right light,” she ended.

“Don’t you believe it,” disagreed Jerry. “Miss Archer knows Miss Merton like a book. It’s a real comfort to have a principal like her. Say, I’ll bet Mignon is so mad she can’t see straight. You should have seen her when she passed us. She was talking a blue streak to that Miss Horner. She was one of the judges, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.” Marjorie’s face clouded at mention of the languidly spoken senior. It now occurred to her that she had not been at fault in believing that Charlotte Horner disliked her. No doubt Mignon was the motive for her dislike. Like Ellen, she, too, tardily recalled that the two had been occasionally seen together last year. It might account also for the emphatic wagging of heads that had gone on among the three judges before the final result of the try-out had been announced.

“I suppose you are going to play the sophomores.” Irma’s soft intonation brought Marjorie out of her brown study.

“Of course.” It was Daisy Griggs who answered. “They are to have their try-out to-morrow afternoon. I don’t believe we will be ready to play them before November. We have a lot of practice ahead of us. We’ll have to have new suits, too. But we won’t know until we have a meeting what colors to choose. We ought to ask the subs what they’d like. We can’t very well go by the junior colors this year. They are deep crimson and white, you know. We couldn’t possibly have white suits with a crimson J, and crimson suits wouldn’t be pretty, either.”

“I think they would,” put in Muriel Harding stoutly. “We could have our suits of a little darker crimson than the class color. They would be stunning with a white J on the blouse and a wide, rolling collar of white broadcloth. Besides, crimson is a victorious color. We’d just have to win. It would be inspiring.”

“It sounds good to me,” approved Susan. “They’d certainly be different from any we’ve ever had. We could all put together and buy the cloth. Then have them made by one person instead of each going to our own dressmaker.”

“I think that would be nice,” nodded Marjorie. “But we want to please Daisy, too, so perhaps – ”

“Oh, I don’t mind. Just so they aren’t a glaring red,” hastily amended Daisy. “I suppose the subs will want to have new suits, too. We ought to call a meeting of the team some time this week. That reminds me, we don’t know yet who is to be captain. You ought to be, Marjorie. I think Ellen will ask you.”

“No.” Marjorie shook a decided head. “To be given center is honor enough for me. Girls, I’d love to have Muriel for captain. She’d be simply splendid.”

“Oh, no, not me,” protested Muriel in ungrammatical confusion. Nevertheless, she flushed with pleasure at Marjorie’s generous proposal.

“That would be fine,” asserted Susan Atwell heartily. She was not in the least jealous because Marjorie had not proposed her for the honor. She had long since learned that Marjorie Dean was incapable of showing favoritism. She had selected Muriel strictly with the good of the team in mind.

“Let’s ask Ellen if we can’t have Muriel,” said Daisy Griggs earnestly.

“You see three of us are of the same mind,” Marjorie pointed out with a smile. “I know Rita will say so, too. But where are she and Harriet?”

“Still in the gym, I guess, with Ellen. Harriet lives next door to Ellen,” reminded Susan. “They’ll be along presently.”

“I can’t wait for them,” Marjorie demurred. “It’s almost six. Captain will wonder why I’m so late. Come on, Jerry and Irma,” she called. Jerry and Irma had wandered a little away from the group and were deeply engaged in earnest discussion. “How many of you are going our way?”

“I’m going to my aunt’s for dinner,” said Muriel. “So I’ll say good-bye. Daisy goes my way, too. See you to-morrow. Come along, Daisy.”

Left to themselves, Susan, Marjorie, Irma and Jerry swung off toward home, four abreast.

“See here, Marjorie,” began Jerry. “You want to look out for Mignon. I told you how mad she looked when she passed us. Irma saw, too. She’ll try to do something to get you off the team and herself on. See if she doesn’t.”

“I’m not going to bother my head about her,” Marjorie made careless reply. “She has never really hurt anyone she’s tried to hurt since I’ve known her. With Ellen Seymour managing the teams, we are all sure of fair play.”

“Don’t be too sure,” muttered Jerry. She added in a louder tone, “Ellen’s not much protection with Mignon on the job. If she can’t play, she’ll try to fix it so somebody else can’t. Not you, perhaps. Anyway, it won’t do any harm for you to keep your eyes open.”

“Don’t croak, Jeremiah.” Marjorie laid a playful hand on Jerry’s lips. “Didn’t I tell you long ago that I should not allow Mignon La Salle to trouble me this year? I am going to keep at a safe distance from her.”

“I hope you stick to that,” was Jerry’s ungracious retort. Under her breath she added, “but I doubt it.”

Jerry Macy’s well-meant warning was destined, however, to come back most forcibly to Marjorie no later than the following morning. As she ran down the steps of her home and on down the walk on her way to school, she encountered the postman at the gate. He handed her two letters, which she received with a gurgle of girlish delight. On the top envelope she had glimpsed Mary’s familiar script. The gurgle changed to a dismayed gasp as she examined the other. Only too quickly had she recognized the handwriting. Shoving Mary’s letter into the pocket of her pretty tan coat, she hastily opened the other envelope. Her evil genius had again come to life. A wave of hot resentment swept her as she unfolded the one sheet of heavy white paper and read:

“Miss Dean:

“No doubt you think yourself very clever to have made the junior team. You could never have done so had partiality not been shown. Others at the try-out were much more worthy of the choice. You believe because you can dress like a doll and are popular with a few rattle-brained girls that everyone likes you. But you are mistaken. A few persons, at least, know how vain and silly and deceitful you are. You pretend to hate snobbery, but you are a snob. Some day everyone will know you for what you really are. The time is not far off. Beware.

Turning, Marjorie went slowly back to the house and climbed the stairs to her room. Pausing before her desk, she opened it. From a pigeon-hole she extracted another letter. Carefully she compared it with the one that had come by post. Yes, they must have both emanated from the same source. Stationery, writing and signature were unmistakable proofs. With a sigh she shoved them both into the pigeon-hole. Who could her mysterious enemy be? These letters were certainly of the variety she had heard classed as “poison pen.”

Thus far she had flouted the idea of Mignon La Salle as the writer of them. Now she was forced to wonder if she had been wrong. Was it possible that Mignon had lurked outside Miss Archer’s office on the morning when she had solved the problem for Rowena Farnham? If this were so, the letter Miss Archer had received might then be accredited to her, as well as the two now in her desk. Barring Rowena Farnham, Marjorie knew no one else who would be likely to engage in such a despicable enterprise. If Mignon were guilty of this, Jerry Macy’s warning had not been an idle one. It, therefore, behooved her, Marjorie Dean, to be on her guard. Yet how could she guard herself against a shadow, an enemy unseen; unknown; unguessed?

CHAPTER XIV – A SOLDIER IN EARNEST

Absorbed in a vain attempt to find a clue to the mysterious prophesier of evil, Marjorie forgot Mary Raymond’s letter until she happened to thrust a hand into her coat pocket on the way home from school at noon. Mary’s long, cheery epistle partially atoned for the hateful sentiments expressed by the unknown. On her return home in the afternoon, a second comforter was accorded her in a letter from Constance Stevens. The day after Marjorie and Jerry had spent the evening at Gray Gables Mr. Stevens had gone to New York. Constance had accompanied him.

Since the great change had taken place in the girl’s life her school days had been more or less broken. Still she managed to keep up in her classes despite frequent short absences from school. It was tacitly understood, not only by Miss Archer, but also by Constance’s other teachers, that she intended to study for a grand opera début as soon as her high school days were over. The mere possession of so remarkable a voice as was hers rather set her apart in some indefinite fashion from her schoolmates. Where others would have been taken to strict account for absence, she was allowed an unusual amount of consideration. Undoubtedly, the fact that when actually in school she invariably acquitted herself with credit in her various studies had much to do with the leniency accorded her. From a very humble person, she was rapidly becoming a personage from whom Sanford expected one day to hear great things.

Marjorie Dean felt Constance’s absences more keenly than anyone else. She had been particularly lonesome for her friend during this latest one, and the news that Constance would return to Sanford and to school on the following week banished for the time the shadow of the morning’s unpleasant incident.

“Constance will be home on Sunday, Captain,” she caroled gleefully, as she danced about the living room by way of expressing her jubilation.

“I am glad to hear it. You really need the child to cheer you up. You’ve been looking rather solemn lately, my dear. Aren’t you happy in your school? Sit down here and give an account of yourself,” commanded Mrs. Dean with a smile.

“Oh, yes.” The answer was accompanied by a faint sigh, as Marjorie curled up on the floor beside her mother. “So far, this has been rather a queer year, though. Nothing very pleasant has happened except basket ball. That’s always a joy. Our team is doing beautifully. We are to play the sophomores on the Saturday before Thanksgiving. It’s going to be a real tussle. Ellen Seymour says there are some great players among the sophs. You’ll come to the game, Captain?”

“I suppose I must. You consider me a loyal fan. That means I must live up to my reputation. By the way, Lieutenant, did that girl who made you so much trouble enter high school? You never told me.”

“You mean Rowena Farnham? Yes; she was allowed to try another set of examinations. Jerry Macy said she won the chance by only one vote. Jerry’s father’s a member of the Board. I wouldn’t tell anyone else but you, though, about that one vote. She is a sophomore now. I see her in the study hall, but we never speak. The girls say she is quite popular with the sophs. I suppose she’s trying hard to make up her lost ground.” Marjorie’s inflection was slightly bored. She felt that she had small cause for interest in Rowena. She had never told her mother of the latter’s attack on herself and Jerry. She preferred not to think of it, much less talk of it. To her it had seemed utterly senseless, as well as cheap.

“And how is Mignon La Salle doing?” questioned Mrs. Dean. “I haven’t heard you mention her, either. I must say I am very glad that you and she are not likely to be thrown together again. Poor little Mary made a bad mistake last year. It is wonderful that things ever worked out as well as they did.” Mrs. Dean’s face grew stern as she recalled the tangle in which Mary’s obstinacy had involved her daughter.

“Oh, Mignon has found a friend in Rowena Farnham. They go together all the time. Jerry says they will soon fall out. I am sure they are welcome to chum together, if they choose.” Marjorie shrugged her shoulders as though desirous of dismissing both girls from her thoughts.

“Jerry is quite likely to be a true prophet,” commented Mrs. Dean. “She is a very wise girl, but decidedly slangy. I cannot understand why a girl brought up in her surroundings should be so thoroughly addicted to slang.”

“She’s trying awfully hard not to use it.” Recalling Jerry’s recent efforts to speak more elegant English, Marjorie laughed outright. “She’s so funny, Captain. If any other girl I know used slang as she does, I wouldn’t like it. But Jerry! Well, she’s different. Next to Connie and Mary I love her best of all my friends. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“She is a very fine girl, in spite of her brusque ways,” praised Mrs. Dean. “General is fond of her, too.” She added this little tribute lest Marjorie might feel that she had been unduly critical. She understood the fact that Marjorie’s friends were sacred to her and on that account rarely found fault with them. Marjorie could be trusted to choose her associates wisely. Those to whom her sympathies went out usually proved themselves worthy of her regard. Motherly anxiety alone had prompted Mrs. Dean to draw her daughter out with a view toward learning the cause of Marjorie’s recent air of wistful preoccupation. Daily it had become more noticeable. If a repetition of last year’s sorrows threatened her only child, Mrs. Dean did not propose to be kept in the dark until it became well-nigh impossible to adjust matters.

Secretly Marjorie was aware of this anxiety on her mother’s part. She felt that she ought to show her Captain the sinister letters she had received, yet she was loath to do so. Her mother’s inquiry concerning Mignon had caused her to reflect uneasily that now if ever was the moment for unburdening her mind. “Captain,” she began, “you know that something is bothering me, don’t you?”