CHAPTER XXI—ROWENA RE-ARRANGES MATTERS
The Sanford performance of “The Rebellious Princess” took place on Friday evening. Late the following afternoon the illustrious cast were conveyed by train or motor to Riverview, the scene of Saturday evening’s operations. Marjorie, Constance, Mr. and Mrs. Dean drove there in the Deans’ motor. Accompanied by Mrs. Macy, Jerry, Susan, Muriel and Irma motored to Riverview together. Hal and Laurie sought temporary freedom from the fair sex in the latter’s roadster. Mr. La Salle had promised, at Mignon’s earnest request, to drive to Riverview with her in her runabout. She had adopted this means of thus temporarily eliminating Rowena. Not daring to thrust herself upon Mignon when bolstered by her father’s protection, Rowena had declared buoyantly that she would be there anyway.
Unfortunately for Mignon, a sudden business emergency sent Mr. La Salle speeding to Buffalo on the Saturday morning train. Before going, however, he instructed his chauffeur to drive Mignon to the train for Riverview and see her safely on it. With others of the cast on the same train, she would be in good company. But the best laid plans often go astray. Ever on the alert for treachery, Rowena saw Mr. La Salle depart and hurrying to the La Salle’s home soon bullied the true state of affairs from his petulant offspring.
“Don’t bother about taking the train,” Rowena counseled arrogantly. “James will drive us over to Riverview in our limousine. He can stay there until the show is over and bring us home.”
“I can’t do that,” parried Mignon. “My father gave orders to William to drive me to the train the cast is to take and put me on it. If I were to go with you, William would tell him.”
“Oh, no, he wouldn’t,” retorted Rowena. “Just let me talk to William.” Without waiting for further excuses from Mignon, the self-willed sophomore dashed out of the house in the direction of the La Salle garage. Mignon followed her, divided between vexation and approbation. She was far from anxious to make the journey to Riverview by train. For once Rowena stood for the lesser of two evils.
“Come here, William,” called Rowena, pausing outside the open garage door and imperiously beckoning the chauffeur who was engaged in putting a fresh tire on Mignon’s runabout.
“What is it, Miss?” asked the man, as he frowningly approached Rowena.
“You needn’t take Miss La Salle to the train this afternoon. She’s going with me. She has so much luggage she can’t manage it on the train, so she had to make different arrangements.” Rowena presented a formidably smiling front as she gave her command.
“But Mr. La Salle——” protested William.
“Don’t be impertinent,” was the freezing interruption. “We know our own business. Miss La Salle’s father will know all about it when he returns. Won’t he?” She turned to Mignon for confirmation.
“It is all right, William,” the latter assured him, purposely neglecting to answer Rowena’s question. “My father will be told when he returns. He forgot about my luggage.”
“All right, Miss Mignon.” William was far too discreet to court the double attack, which he knew would be forthcoming, should he continue to protest. Miss Mignon always did as she pleased, regardless of her father. He made mental note, however, to clear himself the instant his employer returned.
“That was simple enough,” exulted Rowena, as they turned away. “You ought to be glad I fixed everything so nicely for you. I expect some of those snippy girls will be anything but pleased to have me behind the scenes to-night.”
“You’d better keep to my dressing room,” warned Mignon. “On account of it being a different theatre, there is sure to be some confusion. Laurie Armitage won’t like it if you go strolling around among the cast the way you’ve done at rehearsals.”
“You just attend to your own affairs,” blustered Rowena, “and I’ll attend to mine. Who cares what that high and mighty Lawrence Armitage thinks? He’s so wrapped up in that milk-and-water baby of a Constance Stevens he doesn’t know you are alive. Too bad, isn’t it?”
Mignon turned red as a poppy. She began to wish she had not allowed Rowena to alter the arrangements her father had prudently made. Frowning her displeasure at the brutal taunt, she cast a half-longing glance toward the garage. There was still time to inform William that she had changed her mind.
Instantly Rowena marked the glance and divined its import. It did not accord with her plans. If she drove Mignon to reconsider her decision, it meant one of two things. To quarrel openly with her would place beyond reach the possibility of accompanying her to Riverview. If Rowena went there alone she could not hope to be allowed to go behind the scenes. On the other hand she dared not jeopardize her control over Mignon by permitting her to gain even one point.
“Don’t be foolish,” she advised in a more conciliatory tone. “I was only teasing you about that Stevens girl. One of these days this Armitage boy will find out what a silly little thing she is. If you are nice to me, I daresay I can help him to find it out.”
Mignon brightened visibly. From all she had learned of Rowena’s practical methods, she believed her capable of accomplishing wonders in the mischief-making line. “I suppose you mean well,” she said a trifle sullenly. “Still, I don’t think you ought to say such cutting things to me, Rowena.”
Thus once more a temporary truce was declared between these two wayward children of impulse. Though neither trusted the other, sheer love of self admonished them that they could accomplish more by hanging together. Mignon, however, was destined to learn that an unstable prop is no more to be relied upon than no prop at all.
CHAPTER XXII—THE RESULT OF PLAYING WITH FIRE
“See here, Jerry, can’t something be done to keep that Miss Farnham from completely upsetting the cast?” Laurie Armitage’s fine face was dark with disapproval as he halted Jerry, who was hurrying by him toward Constance’s dressing room. “I just heard her telling one of the girls in the chorus that her costume was ‘frightfully unbecoming.’ The poor girl turned red and looked ready to cry. She’s been circulating among the chorus ever since she and Mignon landed in the theatre. Goodness knows what else she has been saying. It won’t do. This isn’t Sanford, you know. We hope to give a perfect performance here. I wish I had told Mignon not to bring her. I hated to do it, though. She might have got wrathy and backed out at the last minute. If ever I compose another operetta, I’ll let somebody else manage it. I’m through,” Laurie concluded in disgust.
“Why don’t you ask Mignon to keep her in the dressing room?” suggested Jerry. “She’s the only one who can manage Row-ena. I doubt if she can.”
“Might as well touch a match to a bundle of firecrackers,” compared Laurie gloomily. “Can’t you think of anything else?”
Jerry studied for a moment. As Laurie’s helper she felt that she ought to measure up to the situation. “It’s almost time for the show to begin,” she said. “The chorus will soon be too busy to bother with her. After the first act, she’ll be in Mignon’s dressing room. Then I’ll slip around among the girls and whisper to them not to mind her. She can’t bother the principals. She doesn’t dare go near Constance or any of the boys like Hal and the Crane.”
“Please do that.” Laurie sighed with relief. “It will help me a great deal.”
Unaware that she had become the victim of a needful strategy, Rowena was serenely deriving huge enjoyment from the brutally frank criticisms she was lavishing right and left among the unoffending choirsters. It was a supreme happiness to her to see her carefully delivered shots strike home. But her ambition to wound lay not entirely with the chorus. She was yearning for a chance to nettle Constance Stevens, whom she hated by reason of the impassable gulf that lay between Constance and herself. Never, since she had come to Sanford, had Constance appeared even to know that she existed. This galled Rowena beyond expression. As a leader among the high school girls she had deemed Constance worth cultivating. She might as readily have tried to bring down the North Star as to ingratiate herself with this calm, lovely girl, and she knew it. Here was something which she could not obtain. Failing, she marked her as a victim for ridicule and scorn.
The first act over at last, Rowena posted herself in Mignon’s dressing room and proceeded to regale the latter with a derisive, laughing account of her fruitful wanderings among the cast. Mignon listened to her with indifference. As she opened the second act, her mind was on her rôle. She was hardly aware that her tormentor had left the dressing room until she became conscious that the high-pitched tones had suddenly ceased.
Mignon proving altogether too non-committal to suit her difficult fancy, Rowena had fared forth in search of fresh adventure. The star dressing room, occupied by Constance, lay two doors farther down the corridor. In passing and repassing it that evening, Rowena had vainly ransacked her guileful brain for an excuse to invade it. Now as she left Mignon’s dressing room she decided to put on an intrepid front and pay Constance a call. Her large, black eyes danced with pure malice as she doubled a fist and pounded upon the closed door.
“Who is there?” came from within. The vigorous tattoo had startled Constance.
For answer Rowena simply swung open the door and stepped into the room. “I thought I’d pay you a call,” she announced with cool complacence.
Seated before a low make-up shelf on which reposed a mirror, Constance was engaged in readjusting her coiffure, which had become slightly loosened during the first act. Her blue eyes showed wondering surprise as she turned in her chair to face the intruder. From Jerry she had already heard angry protests against this mischievous girl. Quiet Constance now read fresh mischief in the intrusion. She resolved to treat her uninvited guest civilly. If possible she would try to keep her in the dressing room until the second act was called. Better that than allow her to further annoy the other girls. As she had no change of costume to make she was free to entertain her unbidden visitor.
“Sit down,” she evenly invited, neither cordial nor cold. “How do you like the operetta?”
Rather taken aback by this placid reception, Rowena dropped gracefully into a chair, her dark eyes fixed speculatively on her hostess. Shrugging her shoulders she gave a contemptuous little laugh as she answered: “Oh, these amateur productions are all alike. Some, of course, are more stupid than others.”
“Do you include the poor Princess among the more stupid?” asked Constance, smiling in spite of herself at this patent attempt to be disagreeable.
“I don’t include it in anything. I don’t even know what it’s all about. I only came to rehearsals and here to amuse myself. Sanford is the deadest town I was ever in and Sanford High School is a regular kindergarten. I suppose you know who I am, don’t you?” Rowena crested her auburn head a trifle.
“Yes. You are Miss Farnham.” Constance made reply in an enigmatic tone.
A threatening sparkle leaped to the other’s eyes. She was beginning to resent Constance’s quiet attitude. “If you knew who I was, why didn’t you speak to me at the first rehearsal?” she sharply launched.
“I merely knew you by sight. There are many girls in Sanford High whom I do not know personally.”
“But I’m different,” pursued Rowena. “My father is very rich and I can have whatever I like. You must know that. You ought to associate with girls of your own class. Your aunt has lots of money and can give you social position. That Geraldine Macy is the only rich girl you ever go with. All the others are just middle class. You’re foolish to waste your time on Marjorie——”
Constance had received Rowena’s first words with secret amusement. As she continued to listen her inward smile changed to outward, rather. At mention of Marjorie her self-imposed placidity flew to the winds. “Kindly leave my dressing room,” she ordered, her voice shaking with indignation. “Marjorie Dean is my dearest friend. No one can belittle her to me. Least of all, you.” Constance had slowly risen, her blue eyes dark with the injury to one she loved.
“I thought that would bring you to life,” laughed Rowena, making no move to rise. As she sat there, the light playing on her ruddy hair, her black eyes agleam with tantalizing mirth, Constance could not but wonder at her tigerish beauty. To quote Muriel, she did resemble “a big, striped tiger.”
Without answering, Constance moved to the door and opened it. She was about to step into the corridor when Rowena sprang forward and clutched her by the arm. “You milk-and-water baby, do you think——” She did not finish. As Constance stepped over the threshold she came almost into collision with Lawrence Armitage. His keen glance immediately took in the situation. He saw Rowena’s arm drop to her side. Brushing past Constance like a whirlwind, she gained the shelter of Mignon’s dressing room and disappeared.
“Hurry. You’ll miss your cue. I didn’t see you in the wings and came to warn you. Run along. I’ll see you later,” uttered Laurie rapidly. His words sent Constance moving rapidly toward the stairway. His lips tightened as he watched her disappear. For a moment he stood still, then, turning, took the same direction.
“Just a moment, Miss La Salle.” Seeking the stairway at the close of the second act, Mignon was halted by a troubled young man. “I don’t wish to be disagreeable, but—Miss Farnham must either remain in your dressing room during the third act or go out in the audience. I am not blaming you. You’ve sung your part splendidly to-night and I appreciate your effort. Will you help me in this? We don’t wish anything to occur to spoil the rest of the operetta. I am sure you understand.” Appeal looked out from his deeply blue eyes.
“Of course I’ll help you.” Mignon experienced a sudden thrill of triumph. Lawrence Armitage was actually asking her to do him a favor. Valiance rose within her. She quite forgot her dread of Rowena’s bluster. Flashing him her most fascinating smile, she held out her hand in token of good faith. Inwardly she was hoping that Constance might happen along to witness the tableau. Laurie clasped it lightly. He was not in the least impressed. “Thank you.” He wheeled abruptly and turned away.
Mignon ran lightly down the stairs and to her dressing room. Inspired by the recent interview, she promptly accosted the ubiquitous Rowena, as she lounged lazily in a chair. “You mustn’t go out of the dressing room or upstairs again until the operetta is over,” she dictated. “Laurie doesn’t want you to. He just spoke to me about it. He has allowed you a lot of liberty already, so I think you’d better do as he says. It won’t be long now until——”
“So Laurie thinks he can order me about, does he?” Rowena sprang to her feet in a rage. “That for Laurie!” She snapped contemptuous fingers. “This is your work. You’ve been talking about me to him. But you’ll be sorry. I know a way——”
Her mood swiftly changing she threw back her head and laughed. Resuming her chair she sat silently eyeing Mignon with a mirthful malevolence that sent a shiver of apprehension up and down the French girl’s spine. Rowena had undoubtedly been inspired with an idea that boded no good to her. As she dressed for the third act she cast more than one nervous glance at the smiling figure of insolence in the chair.
Not a word further had been exchanged between the two when the third act was called. Mignon half expected to see Rowena rise and follow her up the stairs, there to create a scene with Laurie that would delay the rise of the curtain. Nothing of the kind occurred, however, and the last act began and went on to a triumphant end.
After the curtain had been rung down on the final tableau, she made a dash for the stairs to encounter Rowena ascending them. She had already donned her evening cape and scarf. At sight of Mignon she called out in the careless, good-humored fashion she could assume at will: “Hurry up. I’m going on out to the limousine. I need a breath of fresh air.”
Partially convinced that Rowena had recovered from her fit of temper, Mignon gladly hastened to do her bidding. It was not until she began to look about for her high-laced boots that she changed her mind concerning her companion. They were nowhere to be seen. “Rowena has hidden them, just to be aggravating!” she exclaimed angrily. “That was her revenge. But I’ll find them.”
After a frantic ten-minutes’ search she managed to locate them, tucked into either sleeve of the long fur coat she had worn. Thankful to find them, she laced them in a hurry and proceeded to dress with all speed. A repeated receding of footsteps and gay voices from the direction of the stairway warned her that the dressing rooms were being rapidly deserted. Those who had come to Riverview by railway had only a short time after the performance in which to catch the last train for the night.
Taking the stairs, two at a time, Mignon made a rush for the stage door and on out into the cold, starlit night. The first thing she noted was a large part of the cast hurriedly boarding a street car for the station. But where was the Farnham limousine and Rowena? Where was the little line of automobiles she had seen parked along the street when she entered the theatre? Only one now remained, almost a block farther up the street. Her heart beat thankfully as she observed it. It looked like the Farnham limousine. It was just like Rowena to thus draw away a little distance in order to scare her into thinking she had been left behind.
Racing toward it she saw that the chauffeur was engaged in examining one of its tires. She heard a cheery voice call out, “All right, Captain,” and her knees grew weak. The voice did not sound like that of James, the Farnhams’ chauffeur. Hoping against hope she came abreast of it. Then her elfin eyes grew wide with despair. It was not the Farnhams’ car. It belonged to none other than the Deans.
Heartsick, she was about to turn away when a fresh young voice called out, “Mignon La Salle!” Forgetting everything except that she was in difficulties, she halted and managed to articulate, “Have you seen Miss Farnham’s car?”
“Why, no,” came the wondering reply. “Have you missed her?”
“I saw her go by in a limousine,” stated Constance Stevens, from the tonneau of the Deans’ car. “She was driving and the chauffeur was sitting beside her.”
A belated light now dawned upon Mignon. She understood that this was the fruition of Rowena’s threat. She had purposely run off and left her, knowing that she could not hope to catch the last train.
In the dark of the tonneau, Constance gave Marjorie’s hand a quick pressure. Its instant return signified that her chum understood. Without hesitation she called to the tragic little figure on the sidewalk, “We’ll take you home, Mignon. It’s lucky that General stopped to examine that tire.” Then to her father, “This is Mignon La Salle, Father. You know her, Mother.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Dean bowed in reserved fashion. “Get into the tonneau with the girls, Miss La Salle. We will see that you arrive safely at your own door.”
The unexpected courtesy very nearly robbed the stranded girl of speech. Stammering her thanks, Mignon climbed ruefully into the tonneau and seated herself by Marjorie. As the car began a loud purr, preparatory to starting, her outraged feelings overcame her and she burst into tears. “It was hateful in her,” she sobbed, “perfectly hateful.”
“It was,” agreed Marjorie positively. “But I wouldn’t cry about it. You are all right now.” Then with a view to cheering the weeper, she added: “You sang your part beautifully both nights, Mignon. That’s something to be glad of. This little trouble doesn’t really matter, since everything turned out well.”
“It’s nice in you to say it,” quavered Mignon. “But, oh, how I despise that hateful, hateful girl. I’ll never, never speak to her again as long as I live.”
Marjorie might easily have assured her that this was a wise decision. Instead, she prudently refrained from committing herself. Mignon’s mind continued to dwell on her wrongs. She cried and raged against her treacherous companion during most of the ride home. Constance and Marjorie were obliged to listen and administer judicious consolation. It did not appear to sink deep. Mignon was too self-centered to realize their generosity of spirit. When they left her at the La Salle’s gate she tried to put graciousness into her thanks, but her thoughts were too firmly fixed upon faithless Rowena and herself to appreciate the kindness she had received.
“For once Mignon had to swallow a dose of her own medicine,” commented Constance grimly, as the Deans’ car sped away toward their home, where Connie was to spend the night with Marjorie.
“She found it pretty hard to take,” mused Marjorie. “It’s a good thing, though. This will end Mignon’s friendship with Rowena, but it won’t change her one little bit. I don’t believe she’ll ever change.”
CHAPTER XXIII—A PECULIAR REQUEST
“Four letters for you, Lieutenant. Hunt them,” decreed Mrs. Dean, as Marjorie burst into the living room, her cheeks rosy from the nipping kisses of the winter air.
“Oh, I know where they are.” Jubilantly overturning the contents of her mother’s sewing basket, she triumphantly drew them forth. Without bothering to remove her wraps she plumped down at her mother’s feet to revel in her spoils.
“Here’s one from Mary. I’ll read that last. Here’s one from Harriet.” Opening it she read it through and passed it to her mother. “Harriet’s almost well again. Isn’t that good news? Why——” she had opened the next—“it’s from Mignon; a little note of thanks. Oh, Captain!” she stared hard at the note. “I’ve discovered something. Mignon’s not the horrid Observer. See. The writing and paper and all are quite different. I’m sure she isn’t. She’d never ask anyone else to write such letters. It’s not her way.”
“Then that is good news, too,” smiled Mrs. Dean. “I am also glad to know it. It is dreadful to misjudge anyone.”
“I know that. I wish I knew who the Observer was, too.” Marjorie sighed and took up the next letter. As she read it she laughed outright. “It’s from General, the old dear. Just listen:
“Esteemed Lieutenant:
“Head up, forward march to the downtown barracks. Report for stern duty at 4:30 to-morrow (Thursday) P. M. Your most military presence is requested to assist in conferring with an official committee in a matter of great importance to the parties concerned. Failure to appear on time will be punished by court-martial. Be warned not to try to ambush your general in the living room to ascertain the facts beforehand. You will only be captured and sent to the guard house.
“Signed,
“General Dean.”
“It’s a surprise,” nodded Marjorie. “I know it is. Very well, I’ll show him that I’m not a bit curious. I’ll tell him, though, that it’s not fair to threaten a soldier. Do you know what it’s about, Captain?”
“No; I am equally in the dark. I wouldn’t tell you if I knew,” Mrs. Dean answered teasingly.
“I wouldn’t let you,” retorted Marjorie. “I have to be loyal to my orders. Now I’ll read Mary’s letter and then go and answer it. If I don’t answer it now I might put it off.”
Laying the three notes aside, she busied herself with the long letter from Mary, reading it aloud with numerous exclamations and comments. True to her word, she made no mention to her father of his letter. Delighting to tease her, he hinted broadly concerning it, but failed to draw Marjorie into questioning him.
Nevertheless, it was a most curious young woman who entered his office the following afternoon at the exact moment of appointment. Her curiosity was lost in wide-eyed amazement as she saw that he was not alone. Seated in a chair beside his desk was a stout, dark man of middle age, whose restless, black eyes and small, dark mustache bespoke the foreigner. But this was not the cause of her astonishment. It lay in the fact that the man was Mignon La Salle’s father. Both men rose as she entered, Mr. La Salle bowing to her in the graceful fashion of the Frenchman.
“Sit here, Lieutenant. Mr. La Salle wishes to talk with you. He is kind enough to allow me to be present at the conference.”
“Miss Marjorie, I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before to-day. It is a very great pleasure. I have already thanked your father for his kindness to my daughter several evenings since. Now I must thank you, too. But I wish also to ask a far greater favor. My daughter, Mignon,” he paused as though at a loss to proceed, “is a somewhat peculiar girl. For many years she has had no mother.” He sighed, then continuing, “I wish her to be all that is good and fine. But I am a busy man. I cannot take time to be with her as I would desire. From my friend Harold Macy I have heard many pleasant things of you and your friends. So I have thought that it might be well to ask you if you——” Again he paused, his black eyes riveted on Marjorie, “if you will take an interest in my daughter, so that I may feel that her associates are of the best.
“I regret greatly her friendship with Miss Farnham. But that is past. She has told me all, and I have forbidden their further intimacy. Perhaps you are already the friend of my Mignon? If so, it is, indeed, well. If not, may I hope that you will soon become such, indeed?” There was a trace of pleading in his carefully enunciated speech with its slightly foreign accent.
A queer, choking sensation gripped Marjorie’s throat. She was immeasurably touched. Happy in her General’s love, she glimpsed something of the tender motive, which had actuated this stern man of business to plead for his daughter’s welfare.
“I am willing to be Mignon’s friend, if she is willing to be mine,” she answered with grave sweetness. “I think I may speak for my friends, also.”
“Thank you. She will respond, I am sure.” A faint tightening of his thin lips gave hint that he would see to the exaction of that response. “It will be a pleasure to invite you to dine with us to-morrow evening,” he added. La Salle Père evidently intended to allow no grass to grow under his feet.
“Thank you. May I go, General?” Marjorie’s eyes sought her father’s. Though she had maintained a gracious composure, he guessed that she was far from easy over this queer turn of affairs. There was a faintly martyred look in her brown eyes.
“Yes,” he said in a steady, reassuring tone. “Your General approves.” He flashed her a mischievous glance.
“Then you may expect me.” Marjorie rose and offered her hand to the anxious father. “I must go now,” she said. “I am very glad to have met you, Mr. La Salle.”
Once outside the office she drew a long breath of dismay. “I’m quite sure of most of the girls,” was her reflection, “but what, oh, what will Jerry say?”
CHAPTER XXIV—AN UNEXPECTED CALAMITY
Jerry had a great deal to say. She was so justly wrathful she very nearly cried. “It’s the worst thing I ever heard of,” she sputtered. “I wish we’d never revived that old operetta. Then Mignon wouldn’t have sung in it and got left at the switch, and you wouldn’t be asking us to make martyrs of ourselves. After all you’ve said about being through with Mignon, too! It’s a shame!”
“But just suppose her father had come to you and asked you to help her, what would you have done?” pleaded Marjorie.
“Told him Mignon’s history and advised him to lock her up,” snapped Jerry. “I hope—— Oh, I don’t know what I hope. I can’t think of anything horrible enough to hope.”
“Poor Jeremiah. It’s too bad.” Marjorie’s little hand slipped itself into the plump girl’s fingers. “You know you’d have done just as I did. I had quite a long talk with Mignon last night. After dinner her father left us to ourselves. It wasn’t exactly pleasant. She would say mean things about Rowena. Still, she said she’d like to try again and wished that we would all help her. So I said for all of us that we would. You won’t back out, will you, Jerry?”
“I don’t know. Wait a week or two and see what she does, then I can tell better. You’ve got to show me. I mean, I must be convinced.” Jerry wrinkled her nose at Marjorie and giggled. Her ruffled good humor was smoothing itself down.
“That means, you will help her,” was Marjorie’s fond translation. “Constance is willing, too. I am sure of Irma and Harriet, but Susan and Muriel are doubtful. Still, I think I can win them over if I tell them that you are with me in our plan.”
“There’s just this much about it, Marjorie.” Jerry spoke with unusual seriousness. “Mignon will have to play fair or I’ll drop her with a bang. Just like that. The first time I find her trying any of her deceitful tricks will be the last with me. Remember, I mean what I say. If anything like that happens, don’t ask me to overlook it, for I won’t. Not even to please you, and I’d rather please you than anybody else I know.”
“I’ll remember,” laughed Marjorie. She was not greatly impressed by Jerry’s declaration. The stout girl was apt to take a contrary stand, merely for the sake of variety. She had expected that Jerry would scold roundly, then give in with a final threatening grumble.
Susan and Muriel she found even harder to convince of Mignon’s repentance than Jerry. Muriel was especially obstinate. “I’ll speak to Mignon,” she stipulated, “but I won’t ask her to my house or go any place with her. Now that we’ve made over five hundred dollars out of the operetta for the library, you know we’ve been talking about getting up a club. Of course, she’ll want to be in it. But she sha’n’t.”
“Then there’s no use in trying to help her,” said Marjorie calmly, “if we don’t include her in our work and our good times.”
“That’s precisely what you said last year,” retorted Muriel. “You invited her to your party and she nearly broke it up. After that I wonder that you can even dream of trusting her. I’ve known her longer than you, Marjorie. When we all went to grammar school together she was always the disturber. She used to fight with us and then come sliding around to make up. She’d promise to be good, but she never kept her word for long.
“Once she behaved pretty well for three months and we began to like her a little. Then one day some of us went to the woods on a picnic. We took our luncheon and spread a tablecloth on the grass. When we had all the eats spread out on the tablecloth and sat down around it, Mignon got mad because Susan said something to me that made me laugh. We happened to look at her, but we weren’t talking about her. She thought so, though. She began sputtering at us like a firecracker. The more we all tried to calm her the madder she got. Before we could stop her she caught the tablecloth in both hands and gave it a hard jerk. You can imagine what happened! All our nice eats were jumbled together into the grass. The ants got into them and we had to throw nearly everything away. She didn’t stop to help pick up things. She rushed off home and none of us spoke to her for the rest of the year. That’s why I can’t believe in her repentance. Sooner or later she’s bound to upset things again, just as she did that time.”
Marjorie could not resist laughing a little at Muriel’s tragic tale of a woodland disaster. “I can’t blame you for feeling as you do,” she said, “but I must keep my word to her father. It means so much to him. Being in the operetta has given her a little start. Perhaps she’s begun to see that it pays to do well. She knows now how it feels to be treated badly. It must remind her of some of the mean things she’s done. If she’s ever going to change, the time has come. But if no one believes in her, then she’ll get discouraged and be worse than ever. Connie is willing to help. I’d be ashamed to refuse after that. Even Jerry says she’ll consider it.”
“Connie is a perfect angel, and Jerry is a goose,” declared Muriel, flushing rather guiltily. It was difficult to continue to combat Marjorie’s plan in the face of Constance’s nobility of spirit. Constance had been the chief sufferer at Mignon’s hands. Reminded of this, Muriel weakened. “I suppose I ought to get in line with Connie,” she admitted. “I’d feel pretty small if I didn’t. I can’t afford to let Jerry beat me, either.”
Muriel’s objections thus overruled, Susan proved less hard to convince. Once more the reform party banded itself together to the performance of good works. Smarting from the effects of Rowena’s cowardly spite, Mignon was quite willing to be taken up again by so important a set of girls as that to which Marjorie belonged. It pleased her not a little to know that she had gained a foothold that Rowena could never hope to win. Then, too, her father had taken a hand in her affairs. He had sternly informed her that she must about-face and do better. Relief at being plucked from a disagreeable situation, rather than gratitude toward her preservers, had predominated her feelings on the eventful night at Riverview. Fear of her father’s threat to send her away to a convent school if she did not show rapid signs of improvement made her pause.
Returning from his business trip, Mr. La Salle had interviewed first William, the chauffeur, then Mignon. From an indulgent parent he became suddenly transformed into a stern inquisitor, before whose wrath Mignon broke down and haltingly confessed the truth. As a result he had forbidden her further acquaintance with Rowena. Reminded afresh of his parental duty, he had pondered long, then through the kindly offices of Mr. Dean, arranged the meeting with Marjorie. Thus Mignon’s affairs had been readjusted and she had been forced to agree to follow the line of good conduct he had stretched for her.
It was a distinct relief, however, to Marjorie and her friends to find that Mignon was content to be merely on equitable terms. She did not try to force herself upon them, though she received whatever advances they made with an amiability quite unusual to her. They were immensely amused, however, at her frigid ignoring of Rowena Farnham. Her revenge consummated, Rowena decided to re-assume her sway over her unwilling follower. Mignon fiercely declined to be reinstated and the two held a battle royal in which words became sharpest arrows. Later, Rowena was plunged into fresh rage by the news that Mignon had been taken up by the very girls she had over and over again disparaged.
Determined not to be beaten, she continued to waylay Mignon as she went to and from school. Changing her bullying tactics, she next tried coaxing. But Mignon maintained her air of virtuous frigidity and took an especial delight in snubbing the girl she had once feared. It also gave her infinite pleasure to paint Rowena in exceedingly dark colors to whomever would listen to her grievances. Much of this came in round-about fashion to the reformers. They disapproved of it intensely, but held their peace rather than undo the little good they hoped they had already accomplished.
Among her schoolmates the account of Mignon’s near misfortune was received with varying degrees of interest. A few were sympathetically disposed; others merely laughed. Rowena, however, lost caste. Neither her costly clothes, her caustic wit nor her impudently fascinating personality could cover the fact that she had done a treacherous and contemptible deed. The fact that she had left a young girl stranded at midnight in a strange town did not add to her doubtful popularity. Quick to discover this state of affairs, she realized that she had gone a step too far. There was only one way in which she might redeem herself and that lay in the direction of basket ball.
February was speedily living out his short, changeable life. The third of the four games between the sophomore-junior teams was to be played on the last Saturday afternoon of the month, which fell on the twenty-seventh. Thus far each side had won a game. Rowena decreed that the two games yet to be played should go to the sophomores. She would play as she had never played before. Nothing should stand in her way. She would lead the sophomores on to glory and the acclamation of her class would cleanse her blurred escutcheon. Once she had re-established her power she would make Mignon sorry.
Fortunately for her plans, the members of her team had showed no great amount of prejudice against her since the affair of the operetta. They treated her cordially enough during practice and applauded her clever playing. Shrewd to a degree, she divined instantly that they cherished no special regard for her. They were simply using her as a means to the end. Knowing her value as a player, they were egging her on to do well because of their hope of victory in the next two games. She did not doubt that when the season was over there would be a general falling-off in their cordiality unless she so greatly distinguished herself as to win their ungrudging admiration.
Alas for her dream of power, when the third game came off between the two teams, it was the juniors who carried off the palm with a score of 26-14 in their favor. What galled her most was the remarkably brilliant playing of Marjorie Dean. If there lingered a doubt in the mind of Miss Davis regarding Marjorie’s ability to play basket ball, her work on the floor that Saturday afternoon must have completely discounted that doubt. What Miss Davis thought when, from the gallery, she watched the clever playing of the girl she had endeavored to dismiss from the team, was something which was recorded only on her own brain. It was noted by several pairs of watchful eyes that she did not applaud the victors. She had not forgiven them for the difficulties into which they had plunged her on that fateful afternoon.
Losing the game to the enemy made matters distinctly mortifying for Rowena. Among themselves, her teammates gloomily conceded that they had over-rated her as a player. Though they made some effort to conceal their resentment, their cordiality became less apparent. This second defeat precluded all hope of doing more than tieing the score in the one game still to be played. They needed Rowena’s help to bring about that result. Therefore, they dared not express themselves openly. It may be recorded here that the ideals of the four sophomore players were no higher than those of Rowena. Their attitude toward her was glaringly selfish and they were possessed of little loyalty.
The final game was set for the thirteenth of March. Doggedly bent on escaping a whitewashing, the sophomores devoted themselves to zealous practice. So insistently frequent were their demands for the use of the gymnasium that the junior team were obliged to make equally insistent protest against their encroachment.
“I am really glad that this next game is to be the last,” remarked Marjorie to her teammates one afternoon as they were preparing to leave the dressing room after practice. “Basket ball hasn’t seemed the same old game this year. Perhaps I’m outgrowing my liking for it, but really we’ve had so much trouble about it that I long for victory and peace.”
“It’s not the game,” contested Muriel. “It’s those sophs with Rowena Farnham leading them on. Why, even when Mignon was continually fussing with us we never had any trouble about getting the gym for practice. Oh, well, one week from to-morrow will tell the story. If we win it will be a three to one victory. We can’t lose now. All the sophs can do is to tie the score.”
“Where were our subs to-day?” demanded Daisy Griggs. “I didn’t see either of them.”
“Harriet couldn’t stay for practice. She was going to a tea with her mother,” informed Susan. “I don’t know where Lucy Warner was. I didn’t see her in school, either.”
“She must be sick. She hasn’t been in school for almost a week,” commented Muriel. “She is the queerest-acting girl. You’d think to look at her that she hated herself and everybody. She makes me think of a picture of an anarchist I once saw in a newspaper. When she does come to practice she just sits with her chin in her hands and glowers. I can’t understand how she ever happened to come out of her grouch long enough to make the team.”
“She’s awfully distant,” agreed Marjorie dispiritedly. “I have tried to be nice to her, but it’s no use. My, how the wind howls! Listen.” Going to the window of the dressing room, she peered out. “It’s a dreadful day. The walks are solid sheets of ice. The wind blew so hard I could scarcely keep on my feet this noon.”
“I fell down twice,” giggled Susan Atwell. “It didn’t hurt me much. I scraped one hand on a piece of sharp ice, but I’m still alive.”
“Be careful going down the steps,” warned Daisy Griggs, ever a youthful calamity howler.
“Don’t croak, Daisy. If you keep on someone will take a tumble just because you mentioned it,” laughed Muriel. “We can’t afford that with the game so near.”
Dressed at last, their paraphernalia carefully stowed away, the team trooped from the gymnasium and on to their locker room. “I wish I had worn my fur coat,” lamented Muriel. “I’ll surely freeze in my tracks. Are you ready, girls? Do hurry. I am anxious to face the wind and get it over with. I think I’ll take the car home.”
“Ugh!” shuddered Susan. Issuing from the high school building a blast of piercing air struck her full in the face. “We’ll be blown away before we get down the steps.”
“Oh, come along, Susie,” urged Muriel laughingly. “Don’t mind a little thing like that. Look at me. Here goes.” Muriel valiantly essayed the first icy step. A fresh gust of wind assailing her, the hand holding her muff sought her face to protect it.
How it happened no one quite knew. A concerted scream went up from four throats as Muriel suddenly left her feet to go bumping and sliding down the long flight of ice-bound steps. She struck the walk in a heap and lay still.
“Muriel!” Forgetting the peril of the steps, Marjorie took them heedlessly, but safely. A faint moan issued from Muriel’s lips as she knelt beside her. Muriel moaned again, but tried to raise herself to a sitting posture. She fell back with a fresh groan.
“Where are you hurt?” Marjorie slipped a supporting arm under her. By this time the others had safely made the descent and were gathered about the two.
“It’s my right shoulder and arm. I’m afraid my arm is broken,” gasped Muriel, her face white with pain.
“Let me see.” Marjorie tenderly felt of the injured member. “Do I hurt you much?” she quavered solicitously.
“Not—much. I guess it’s—not—broken. It’s my shoulder that hurts most.”
Several persons had now gathered to the scene. A man driving past in an automobile halted his car. Leaping from the machine he ran to the scene. “Someone hurt?” was his crisp question. “Can I be of service?”
“Oh, if you would.” Marjorie’s face brightened. “Miss Harding fell down those steps. She’s badly hurt.”
“Where does she live? I’ll take her home,” offered the kindly motorist. Lifting Muriel in his arms he carried her to the car and gently deposited her in its tonneau. “Perhaps you’d better come with her,” he suggested.
“Thank you, I will. Good-bye, girls. Go on over to my house and wait for me. I’ll be there in a little while.” Lifting her hand to the three frightened girls, who had advanced upon the machine with sundry other curious pedestrians, Marjorie gave Muriel’s rescuer the Hardings’ address, climbed into the car and slammed the door shut.
“Poor Muriel,” wailed Daisy Griggs, as the car rolled away. “I told her to be careful. I hope she isn’t hurt much. And the game next week!”
Three pairs of startled eyes met and conveyed the same dismaying thought. What would the team do without Captain Muriel?
CHAPTER XXV—A STRENUOUS HIKE TO A TRYING ENGAGEMENT
Everybody knows the trite saying: “It never rains but that it pours.” The disasters of the following week seemed quite in accord with it. Muriel’s spectacular slide down the ice steps brought her a broken collarbone. The three anxious girls had awaited news of Muriel at Marjorie’s home had hardly taken their leave when the ring of the postman brought her fresh misery. Little knowing what he did, that patient individual handed Marjorie a letter which filled her with angry consternation. Why in the world had the hated Observer come to life again at such a time?
Without waiting to read the unwelcome epistle in her Captain’s presence, Marjorie ripped open the envelope with a savage hand. This time the unknown was detestably brief, writing merely:
“Miss Dean:
“I hope you lose the game next Saturday. You are more of a snob than ever. Defeat will do you good. Prepare to meet it.
“The Observer.”
“Oh!” Marjorie dashed the offending letter to the floor. Muriel’s accident was bad enough. It had not needed this to complete her dejection. Recapturing the spiteful message she was about to tear it into bits. On second reflection she decided to keep it and add it to her obnoxious collection. Something whispered to her that the identity of the tormenting Observer would yet be revealed to her.
Facing the lamentable knowledge that Muriel must be counted out of the coming contest, Harriet replaced her. This in itself provided a grain of comfort. Harriet was a skilful player and would work for the success of the team with all her energy. The other four players congratulated themselves on thus having such able support. Due to Muriel’s absence, Marjorie had been asked to assume temporary captainship. Her mind now at ease by reason of Harriet’s good work, she gave her most conscientious attention to practice.
Matters skimmed along with commendable smoothness until the Wednesday before the game. Then she encountered a fresh set-back. Word came to her that Susan Atwell had succumbed to the dreaded tonsilitis that all through the winter had been going its deadly round in Sanford. On receipt of the news she recalled that for the past two days Susan had complained of sore throat. She had given it no serious thought, however. Her own throat had also troubled her a trifle since that stormy day when Muriel had come to grief. There was but one thing to do. Put Lucy Warner in Susan’s position. Her heart almost skipped a beat as she faced the fact that Lucy, too, had been absent from school for over a week. Someone had said that Lucy was also ill. Marjorie reproached herself for not having inquired more closely about the peculiar green-eyed junior. “I ought to have gone to see her,” she reflected. “I’ll go to-night. Perhaps she is almost well by this time, and can come back to school in time for the game. If she can’t, then I’d better ask Mignon to play in Susan’s place.”
School over for the day she accosted Jerry and Irma with, “I can only walk as far as the corner with you to-night. I’m going to see Lucy Warner. She’s been sick for over a week. Did you ever hear of such bad luck as the team has been having lately? I feel so discouraged and tired out. I don’t believe I’ll try for the team next year.” Marjorie’s usually sprightliness was entirely missing. Her voice had taken on a weary tone and her brown eyes had lost their pretty sparkle.
“You’d better go straight home and take care of yourself,” gruffly advised Jerry, “or you won’t be fit to play on the team Saturday.”
“Oh, I’m all right.” Marjorie made an attempt to look cheerful. “I’m not feeling ill. My throat is a little bit sore. I caught cold that day Muriel fell down the steps. But it’s nothing serious. I shall go to bed at eight o’clock to-night and have a long sleep. I’m just tired; not sick. I must leave you here. Good-bye. See you to-morrow.” Nodding brightly she left the two and turned down a side street.
“See us to-morrow,” sniffed Jerry. “Humph! I doubt it, unless we go to her house. She’s about half sick now. It’s the first time I ever saw her look that way. She’s so brave, though. She’d fight to keep up if she were dying.”
Meanwhile, as she plodded down the snowy street on her errand of mercy, Marjorie was, indeed, fighting to make herself believe that she was merely a little tired. Despite her languor, generosity prompted her to stop in passing a fruit store and purchase an attractive basket filled with various fruits likely to tempt the appetite of a sick person. She wondered if Lucy would resent the offering. She was such a queer, self-contained little creature.
“What a dingy house!” was her thought, as she floundered her way through a stretch of deep snow to Lucy’s unpretentious home. Detached from its neighbors, it stood unfenced, facing a bit of field, which the small boys of Sanford used in summer as a ball ground. It was across this field that Marjorie was obliged to wend a course made difficult by a week’s fall of snow that blanketed it. An irregular path made by the passing and repassing of someone’s feet led up to the door. It appeared that the Warners were either too busy or else unable to clear their walk.
Finding no bell, Marjorie removed her glove and knocked on the weather-stained front door. It was opened by a frail little woman with a white, tired face and faded blue eyes. She stared in amazement at the trim, fur-coated girl before her, whose attractive appearance betokened affluence. “How do you do?” she greeted in evident embarrassment.
“Good afternoon. Are you Mrs. Warner?” Marjorie asked brightly. “I have come to see Lucy. How is she to-day? I am Marjorie Dean.”
“Oh, are you Miss Dean? I mailed a letter she wrote you several days ago. Come in, please,” invited the woman cordially. “I am very glad to see you. I am sure Lucy will be. She is better but still in bed. Will you take off your wraps?”
“No, thank you. I can’t stay very long. I feel guilty at not coming to see her sooner. What is the trouble with her—tonsilitis? So many people in Sanford are having it.” Marjorie looked slightly mystified over Mrs. Warner’s reference to the letter. She had received no letter from Lucy. She decided, however, that she would ask Lucy.
“No; she was threatened with pneumonia, but managed to escape with a severe cold. I will take you to her. She is upstairs.”
Following Mrs. Warner up a narrow stairway that led up from a bare, cheerless sitting room, Marjorie was forced to contrast the dismal place with the Deans’ luxurious living room. Why was it, she sadly pondered, that she had been given so much and Lucy so little? The Warners’ home was even more poverty-stricken than the little gray house in which Constance Stevens had once lived. Then she had deplored that same contrast between herself and Constance.
“Miss Dean has come to see you, Lucy,” said Mrs. Warner. Marjorie had followed the woman into a plain little bedroom, equally bare and desolate.
“You!” Glimpsing Marjorie behind her mother, Lucy sat up in bed, her green eyes growing greener with horrified disapproval.
“Yes, I.” Marjorie flushed as she strove to answer playfully. That single unfriendly word of greeting had wounded her deeply. The very fact that, half sick herself, she had waded through the snow to call on Lucy gave her a fleeting sense of injury. She tried to hide it by quickly saying: “I must apologize for not visiting you sooner. Our team has had so many mishaps, I have been busy trying to keep things going. I brought you some fruit to cheer you up.”
“I will leave you girls to yourselves,” broke in Mrs. Warner. As she went downstairs she wondered at her daughter’s ungracious behavior to this lovely young friend. Lucy was such a strange child. Even she could not always fathom her odd ways.
“Why have you come to see me?” demanded Lucy, hostile and inhospitable. All the time her lambent green eyes remained fixed upon Marjorie.
“Why shouldn’t I come to see you?” Marjorie gave a nervous little laugh. Privately she wished she had not come. Embarrassment at the unfriendly reception drove the question of the letter from her mind.
“You never noticed me in school,” pursued Lucy relentlessly. “Why should you now?”
“You would never let me be friends with you,” was Marjorie’s honest retort. “I’ve tried ever so many times. I have always admired you. You are so bright and make such brilliant recitations.”
“What does that matter when one is poor and always out of things?” came the bitter question.
“Oh, being poor doesn’t count. It’s the real you that makes the difference. When I was a little girl we were quite poor. We aren’t rich now; just in comfortable circumstances. If I chose my friends for their money I’d be a very contemptible person. You mustn’t look at matters in that light. It’s wrong. It shuts you away from all the best things in life; like love and friendship and contentment. I wish you had said this to me long ago. Then we would have understood each other and been friends.”
“I can never be your friend,” stated the girl solemnly.
“Why not?” Marjorie’s eyes widened. “Perhaps I ought not to ask you that. It sounded conceited. I can’t blame you if you don’t like me. There are many persons I can’t like, either. Sometimes I try to like them, but I seldom succeed,” she made frank admission.
“You are a puzzling girl,” asserted Lucy, her green eyes wavering under Marjorie’s sweetly naïve confession. “Either you are very deceitful, or else I have made a terrible mistake.” She suddenly lay back in bed, half hiding her brown head in the pillow.
“I would rather think that you had made a mistake.” The rose in Marjorie’s cheeks deepened. “I try never to be deceitful.”
Lucy did not reply, but buried her face deeper in the pillow. An oppressive silence ensued, during which Marjorie racked her brain as to what she had best say next. What ailed Lucy? She was even queerer than Marjorie had supposed.
With a convulsive jerk Lucy suddenly sat upright. Marjorie was relieved to observe no indication of tears in the probing green eyes. She had feared Lucy might be crying. Why she should cry was a mystery, however.
“If you had made a mistake about someone and then done a perfectly dreadful thing and afterward found out that it was all a mistake, what would you do?” Lucy queried with nervous intensity.
“I—that’s a hard question to answer. It would depend a good deal on what I had done and who the person was.”
“But if the person didn’t know that it was you who did it, would you tell them?” continued Lucy.
“If I had hurt them very much, I think my conscience would torment me until I did,” Marjorie said slowly. “It would be hard, of course, but it would be exactly what I deserved. But why do you ask me such strange things?”
“Because I must know. I’ve done something wrong and I’ve got to face it. I’ve just found out that I have a very lively conscience. What you said is true. I deserve to suffer. I am the Observer.” Lucy dropped back on her pillow, her long, black lashes veiling her peculiarly colored eyes.
Undiluted amazement tied Marjorie’s tongue. Staring at the pitifully white, small face against the pillow, she came into a flashing, emotional knowledge of the embittered spirit that had prompted the writing of those vexatious letters. “You poor little thing!” she cried out compassionately. The next instant her soft hands held one of Lucy’s in a caressing clasp.
Lucy’s heavy lids lifted. “I don’t wonder your friends love you,” she said somberly. Her free hand came to rest lightly on Marjorie’s arm. “I know now that I could have been your friend, too.”
“But you shall be from this minute on,” Marjorie replied, her pretty face divinely tender. “You’ve proved your right to be. It was brave in you to tell me. If you hadn’t been the right sort of girl you might have decided to like me and kept what you told me to yourself. I would never have known the difference. I am glad that I do know. It takes away the shadow. I understand that you must have suffered a great deal. I blame myself, too. I’m afraid I’ve thought too much about my own pleasure and seemed snobbish.”
“I wouldn’t have done it, only one Sunday when you were walking along with that Miss Macy and that girl who used to live at your house, I met you and you didn’t speak to me. All three of you were dressed beautifully. It made me feel so bad. I was wearing an old gray suit, and I thought you cut me on account of my clothes. I know now that I was wrong. That was the beginning of the mistake. Then when you girls had those expensive basket ball suits made, I thought you chose them just to be mean to me. Of course, I didn’t expect to be invited to your parties, but it hurt me to be passed by all the time in school.”
“I never saw you that day, and I’m sure we never thought about how it might look to others when we ordered our suits. You’ve taught me a lesson, Lucy. One ought to be made careful about such things in a large school. Someone is sure to be made unhappy. Now we must put all the bad things away for good and think only of the nice ones. When you get well you are going to have some good times with me. My friends will like you, too. No one must ever know about—well, about the mistake.”
But Lucy could not thus easily take things for granted. Remorse had set in and she felt that she ought to be punished for her fault. After considerable cheerful persuasion, Marjorie brought her into an easier frame of mind. When finally she said good-bye she left behind her a most humble Observer who had given her word thereafter to observe life from a happier angle.
Once away from the house a feeling of heavy lassitude overwhelmed the patient Lieutenant. It had been a strenuous hike to a trying engagement. Her head swam dizzily as she stumbled through the drifted field to better walking. Her wet shoes and stockings added to her misery. How her cheeks burned and how dreadfully her throat ached! Was Jerry’s prediction about to be fulfilled? Was she only tired out, or had actual sickness descended upon her just when she needed most to be well?