Marjorie Dean, High School Sophomore

CHAPTER VIII

THE LATEST SOPHOMORE ARRIVAL

Though the evening of the dance had been deceitfully clear and balmy, dark clouds banked the autumn sky before morning and the day broke in a downpour of rain. It was a doubly dreary morning to poor little Mary Raymond and over and over again Longfellow's plaintive lines,

repeated themselves in her brain. Yes, rain had indeed fallen into her life. The bitter rain of false friendship. All the days must from now on be dark and dreary. Last night she had danced the hours away, secure in the thought that Marjorie would not fail her. And Marjorie had spoken no word of explanation. During the drive home she had talked gaily of the dance and of the boys and girls who had attended it. She had related bright bits of freshman history concerning them, but on the subject of Constance Stevens and her affairs she had been mute. Mary fancied she had purposely avoided the subject. In this respect she was quite correct. Marjorie, still a little disturbed over her promise to Constance, had tried to direct Mary's mind to other matters. Deeply hurt, rather than jealous, Mary had listened to Marjorie in silence. She managed to make a few comments on the dance, and pleading that she was too sleepy for a night-owl talk, had kissed Marjorie good night rather coldly and hurried to her room. Stopping only to lock the door, she had thrown herself on her bed in her pretty evening frock and given vent to long, tearless sobs that left her wide awake and mourning, far into the night. It was, therefore, not strange that lack of sleep, coupled with her supposed dire wrongs, had caused her to awaken that morning in a mood quite suited to the gloom of the day.

A vigorous rattling of the door knob caused her to spring from her bed with a half petulant exclamation.

"Let me in, Mary," called Marjorie's fresh young voice from the hall. "Whatever made you lock your door? I guess you were so sleepy you didn't know what you were about."

Mary turned the key and opened the door with a jerk. Marjorie pounced upon her like a frolicsome puppy. Wrapping her arms around her chum, she whirled her about and half the length of the room in a wild dance.

"Let me alone, please." Mary pulled herself pettishly from Marjorie's clinging arms.

"Why, Lieutenant, what's the matter? You aren't sick, are you? If you are, I'm sorry I was so rough. If you're just sleepy, then I'm not. You needed waking up. It's a quarter to eight now and we'll have to hustle. Captain let us sleep until the last minute. Now, which are you, sick or sleepy?"

"Both," returned Mary laconically. "I – that is – my head aches."

"Poor darling. Was Marjorie a naughty girl to tease her when her was so sick?" Marjorie sought to comfort her chum, but Mary eluded her sympathetic caress and said almost crossly, "Don't baby me. I – I hate being babied and you know it."

Marjorie's arms dropped to her sides. "I didn't mean to tease you. I'm sorry. I'll go down and ask Captain to give you something to cure your headache." She turned abruptly and left the room, deeply puzzled and slightly hurt. What on earth ailed Mary?

The moment the door closed Mary pattered into the bathroom and banged the door. She hurried through her bath and was partly dressed when Marjorie returned with a little bottle of aspirin tablets. "One of these will fix up your head," she declared cheerily.

"I don't want it," muttered Mary. "My head is all right now."

"That is what I would call a marvelous recovery," laughed Marjorie. "I wish Captain's headaches would take wing so easily. You know what dreadful sick headaches she sometimes has. She had one on the first day I went to Sanford High, and I had to go alone."

"I remember," nodded Mary carelessly. "That was one of the things you did write me."

"I wrote you lots of things," retorted Marjorie lightly, failing to catch the significance of Mary's words. "But now you are here, I don't have to write them. I can say them."

"Then, why don't you?" was on Mary's tongue, but she did not say it. Instead, she maintained a half sulky silence, as she walked to the wardrobe and began fingering the gowns hung there. Selecting a blue serge dress, made sailor fashion, she slipped into it and began fastening it as she walked to the mirror. Marjorie stood watching her, with a half frown. She did not understand this new mood of Mary's. The Mary she had formerly known had been sunny and light-hearted. The girl who stood before the mirror, grave and unsmiling, was a stranger.

"I'm ready to go downstairs." Mary turned slowly from the mirror and walked toward the door. Beneath her quiet exterior, a silent struggle was going on. Should she speak her mind once and for all to Marjorie, or should she go on enduring in silence? Perhaps it would be best to speak and have things out. Then, at least, they would understand each other. Then her pride whispered to her that it was Marjorie's and not her place to speak. Marjorie must know something of her state of mind. At heart she must be just the least bit ashamed of herself for shutting her out of her personal affairs. Had they not sworn long ago to tell each other their secrets. She had always kept her word. It was Marjorie who had failed to do so. No, she would not humble herself. Marjorie might keep her secrets, for all she cared. She was sorry that she had ever come to Sanford. Now that she was here she would have to stay. If she wrote her father to take her away, her mother would have to be told. Mary was resolved that no matter what happened to her, her mother must be spared all anxiety. She would try to bear it. Marjorie should never know how deeply she was wounded. She would pretend that all was as it had been before.

Mrs. Dean looked up from her letters, as the two girls entered the dining room.

"Hurry, children," she admonished. "You haven't much time to spare. These social affairs completely break up army discipline. Look out you don't go to sleep at your post this morning."

"Who's sleepy? Not I," boasted Marjorie. "I feel as though I'd slept for hours and hours. Your army is ready for duty, Captain. Lieutenant Mary's headache has been put to rout and everything is lovely."

"Are you sure you feel quite well, dear?" questioned Mrs. Dean anxiously. She noted that Mary was very pale and that her eyes looked strained and tired.

"I'm quite well now, thank you." The ghost of a smile flickered on her pale face.

"Did you enjoy the dance? It was nice in Connie to give it in your honor. We are all very fond of her and of little Charlie."

Mary's wan face brightened at the mention of the child's name. "Isn't he dear?" she asked impulsively.

"Mary has stolen Charlie from me," put in Marjorie. "He adores her already. I don't blame him. So do I, and so does Connie, too. We three are going to have splendid times together this winter."

During the rest of the breakfast Marjorie regaled her mother with an account of the dance. Mary said little or nothing, but amid her friend's merry chatter her silence passed unnoticed.

"Wear your raincoats," called Mrs. Dean after them, as, their breakfast finished, they ran upstairs for their wraps.

Fifteen minutes later they had joined the bobbing umbrella procession that wended its way into the high school building.

"You'll have to go to Miss Merton, Mary, and be assigned to a seat. She didn't give you one yesterday, did she?" asked Marjorie. "You can put your wraps in our locker. We are to have the same lockers we had last year. Connie and I have a locker together. There is lots of room in it for your things, too. I'll task Marcia Arnold to let you in with us. She has charge of the lockers."

Mary's first impulse was to decline this friendly offer. On second thought she closed her lips tightly, resolved to make no protest. Later – well, there was no telling what might happen.

"Don't be afraid of Miss Merton," was Marjorie's whispered counsel, as they crossed the threshold of the study hall. "She can't eat you."

"I'm not afraid." Mary's lip curled a trifle scornfully. Marjorie treated her as though she were a baby.

"I have come to you for my seat," was her terse statement, as she paused squarely before Miss Merton's desk.

Miss Merton glanced up to meet the unflinching gaze of two purposely cold blue eyes. Something in their direct gaze made her answer with undue civility, "Very well. I will assign you to one. Come with me."

She stalked down the aisle, Mary following, to the last seat in one of the two sophomore rows, and paused before it. "This will be your seat for the year," she said.

"Thank you." Mary sat down and took account of her surroundings. Across the aisle on one side, Susan Atwell's dimpled face flashed her a welcome. On the other side sat a tall, severe junior who wore eye-glasses. The seat in front of her was vacant. Marjorie sat far down the same row. Mary could just see the top of her curly head. It still lacked five minutes of opening time and the students were, for the most part, conversing in low tones. Now and then an accidentally loud note caused Miss Merton to raise her head from her writing and glare severely at the offender.

Susan Atwell leaned across the aisle and patted Mary's hand in friendly fashion. "I'm so glad you are going to sit here," she said in an undertone. "I was afraid Miss Merton would put some old slow-poke there who wouldn't say 'boo' or pass notes or do anything to help the sophomore cause along."

"I'm glad she put me near you," returned Mary affably. She had made up her mind to win friends. They would be indispensable to her now that all was over between her and Marjorie. "I don't imagine that tall girl is very sociable."

"She's a dig and a prig," giggled Susan. "You'd get no recreation from labor from that quarter."

Mary echoed Susan's infectious giggle. "Who sits in front of me?" she asked.

"No one, yet. Who knows what manner of girl is in store for us? That's the only vacant seat in the section. The first late arrival into our midst will get it. I don't believe we'll have any more girls, though, unless someone comes into school late as Marjorie came last year. It's too bad. It makes an awkward stretch if one wants to pass a note. I always am caught if I throw one. Last year I threw one and hit Miss Merton in the back. She was standing quite a little way down the aisle. I thought it was a splendid opportunity. I'd been waiting to send one to Irma Linton, who sat two seats in front of me. The girl between us wouldn't pass it. So I threw it, and it went further than I thought." Susan's fascinating giggle burst forth anew. She rocked to and fro in merriment at the recollection.

Mary found herself laughing in concert. Just then the opening bell clanged forth its harsh note of warning. The low buzz of voices in the great study hall died into silence. Every pair of eyes faced front. Miss Merton rose from her chair to conduct the opening exercises. A sudden murmur that swept the hall caused her to say sternly, "Silence." Then, noting that the eyes of her pupils were fixed in concerted gaze on the study-hall door, she turned sharply.

A black-haired, black-eyed girl, whose elfish face wore an expression of mingled contempt and amusement, advanced into the room with a decided air of one who wishes to create an impression.

"Mignon!" gasped Susan. "Well, what do you think of that?"

CHAPTER IX

THE BLINDNESS OF JEALOUSY

At sight of the newcomer Miss Merton's severe face underwent a lightning change. She stepped from the platform and hurried toward the dark-eyed girl with outstretched hand. Her harsh voice sounded almost pleasant, as she said, "Why, Mignon, I am delighted to see you!"

Mignon La Salle tossed her head with an air of triumph as she took Miss Merton's hand. In her, at least, she had a powerful ally. Lowering her voice, the teacher asked her several questions. Mignon answered them in equally guarded tones, accompanied by the frequent significant gestures which are involuntary in those of foreign birth.

A subdued buzzing arose from different parts of the study hall. Apparently engrossed in her conversation with the girl who had been her favorite pupil during her freshman year, Miss Merton paid no attention to the sounds provoked by Mignon La Salle's unexpected arrival. As a matter of fact, she was quite aware of them, but chose to ignore them solely on Mignon's account. To rebuke the whisperers would tend toward embarrassing the French girl.

"There is just one vacant place in the sophomore section," she informed Mignon. "I think I must have reserved it specially for you." She contorted her face into what she believed to be an affable smile.

Mignon answered it in kind, with an inimitable lifting of the eyebrows and a significant shrug.

"Look at her," muttered Jerry Macy in Marjorie's ear. "Miss Merton is taffying her up in great style. She always puts on her cat-that-ate-the-canary expression when she's pleased. And to think that we've got to stand for her again this year!" Jerry gave a positive snort of disgust.

"Shh! They'll hear you, Jerry," warned Marjorie.

"Don't care if they do. Wish they would," grumbled the disgruntled Jerry. "I'll bet you ten to one she was sent home from boarding school."

There was a general turning of heads and craning of necks as Miss Merton conducted Mignon down the aisle to the vacant seat in front of Mary Raymond. There was a brief exchange of low-toned words between the two, then Mignon seated herself, while Miss Merton marched stolidly back to her desk and without further delay began the interrupted morning exercises.

Mary Raymond viewed the black, curly head and silken-clad shoulders of the newcomer with some curiosity. The subdued ripple of astonishment that had passed over the roomful of girls told her that here was no ordinary pupil. Mignon's expensive frock of dark green Georgette crepe, elaborately trimmed, also pointed to affluence. Mary reasoned that she must be known to the others. A stranger would not have created such a buzz of comment. Then, she remembered Susan's amazed exclamation. She turned to the latter and made a gesture of inquiry, Susan shook her head. Her lips formed a silent, "After school," and Mary nodded understandingly.

"Young ladies, you will arrange your programme of recitations this morning as speedily as possible," was Miss Merton's command the moment opening exercises were over. "You will be given until ten o'clock to do so. Then there will be twenty-minute classes for the rest of the morning. Classes will occupy the usual period of time during the afternoon. Try to arrange your studies so that you will not have to waste valuable time in making changes. Please avoid asking unnecessary questions. The bulletin board will tell you everything, if you take pains to examine it carefully. Let there be no loud talking or personal conversation."

Miss Merton sat down with the air of one who has done her duty, and glared severely at the rows of attentive young faces. She was not in sympathy with these girls. Their youth was a distinct affront to her narrow soul.

The business of arranging the term's studies began in quiet, orderly fashion. The majority of the pupils had long since decided upon their courses of study. Their main duty now lay in making satisfactory arrangements of their classes and the hours on which their various recitations fell.

Marjorie Dean studied the bulletin board with a serious face. She had successfully carried five studies during her freshman year. She decided that she would do so again, provided the fifth subject held interest enough to warrant the extra effort it meant. Plane geometry, of course, she would have to take. Then there was second year French. She and Constance intended to go on with the language of which they were so fond. Her General had insisted that she must begin Latin. She should have begun it in her freshman year. That made three. Then there was chemistry. Should she choose a fifth subject? Yes, there was English Literature. It would not be hard work. She was sure she would love it. Besides, she wished to be in Miss Flint's class.

Once she had decided upon her subjects, she studied the board anew for a proper arrangement of her recitation hours. For a wonder they fitted into one another beautifully, leaving her that last coveted period in the afternoon, free for study. She sat back at last with a faint breath of satisfaction. She wondered how Mary was getting on and what she intended to study. They had agreed beforehand on Chemistry. Only the day before Mr. Dean had half-promised to fit out a tiny laboratory for them in a small room at the rear of the house.

Mary, however, was frowning darkly at the board. She wondered in which section Marjorie intended to recite geometry. She had been so busy with her own woes that gloomy morning that she had quite forgotten to plan with Marjorie. Oh, well, she reflected, what difference did it make? Marjorie wouldn't care whether they recited together or not. Very likely she had already made plans with that odious Constance Stevens that would leave her out. Marjorie had already said that she and Constance intended to go on with French together. Then there were Cæsar's Commentaries. She had finished first-year Latin. She would have to take them next. Suddenly a naughty idea came into her perverse little brain. Why not purposely leave Marjorie out of her calculations? Marjorie had wished her to take chemistry. Very well. She would disappoint her by choosing something else. Then if Mr. Dean fitted out a laboratory, his daughter would have the pleasure of working in it all by herself. She would show a certain person what it meant to cast aside a lifelong friendship. Oh, yes, Marjorie was anxious for her to take English literature. She would take rhetoric instead. She would go still further. If when classes assembled she found herself in the same geometry section with her chum she would make an excuse and change to another period of recitation. The frown deepened on her smooth forehead as she jotted down her subjects on the sheet of paper before her.

Suddenly conscious of the intent regard of someone, she raised her head. A pair of elfish black eyes were fixed upon her in curious intent.

"Who are you?" asked Mignon La Salle with cool impudence. "You look like that priggish Miss Stevens. I hope for your sake you are not a relative of hers."

"Most certainly I am not," retorted Mary, flushing angrily. It was too provoking. Why must she be constantly reminded of her resemblance to one she disliked so intensely? In her annoyance at the nature of the French girl's remarks, she quite overlooked the impertinence of her address.

A gleam of satisfaction flashed across Mignon's face. "Then there is hope," she returned, holding up her forefinger in an impish imitation of a world-wide advertisement. "Say it again. I can't believe the evidence of my own ears."

"I am not a relative of Miss Stevens," repeated Mary a trifle stiffly. The French girl's mocking tones were distinctly unpleasant. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I wish to know," shrugged Mignon Then she added tactfully, "Please don't think me rude. I am always too frank in expressing my opinions. If I dislike anyone I can't smile deceitfully and pretend them to be my dearest friend."

Mary's sullen face cleared. Here at last was a girl who seemed to be sincere. She unbent slightly and smiled. Mignon returned the smile in her most amiable fashion.

"Pardon me for a moment." Mignon turned in her seat and began fumbling in a little leather bag that lay on her desk.

Mary felt a quick, light touch on her arm. Susan Atwell began making violent signs at her behind Mignon's back. She desisted as suddenly as she began. The French girl had turned again toward Mary with the quick, cat-like manner that so characterized all her movements.

"Here is my card," she offered, placing a bit of engraved pasteboard on Mary's desk.

The latter picked it up and read, "Mignon Adrienne La Salle."

"What a pretty name!" was her soft exclamation.

"I'm glad you like it," beamed Mignon. "But you haven't told me yours."

"I haven't any cards with me," apologized Mary. "My name is Mary Raymond."

"Have you lived long in Sanford?" inquired Mignon suavely. She had already decided that a girl who was in sympathy with her on one point might prove to be worth cultivating.