Marjorie Dean, High School Freshman

by Josephine Chase

  CHAPTER III

  THE GIRL WHO LOOKED LIKE MARY

  "It's rather nice to have so much room, but I know I shall never feelquite at home here," murmured Marjorie Dean, under her breath, as shecame slowly down the steps of her new home and paused for a moment inthe middle of the stone walk which led to the street. Her wistful glancestrayed over the stretch of lawn, still green, then turned to rest onthe house, a comfortable three-story structure of wood, painted darkgreen, with lighter green trimmings. Her mother's sudden appearance atthe window caused Marjorie to retrace her steps. Luncheon was ready.

  "Everything is so different," she sighed, as she climbed the steps shehad so lately descended. "I've been here a week, and I haven't met asingle girl. I don't believe there are any girls in this neighborhood. Ishould feel a good deal worse, too, if the Franklin girls hadn't beensuch dears!" Marjorie's last comment, spoken half aloud, referred to thenumerous letters she had received since her arrival in the town ofSanford from her Franklin High School friends, now so many miles away.Mary Raymond had not only fulfilled her promise to write one long letterevery week, but had mailed Marjorie, almost daily, hurriedly-writtenlittle notes full of the news of what went on among the boys and girlsshe had left behind.

  It had been a busy, yet a very long week for Marjorie. The unpacking ofthe Deans' furniture, which had been shipped to Sanford a week beforetheir arrival there, and the setting to rights of her new home had sooccupied the attention of Mrs. Dean and Nora, her faithfulmaid-of-all-work, that Marjorie, aside from certain tasks allotted toher to perform, was left for the most part to her own devices. As theyhad arrived in Sanford on Monday, Marjorie's mother had decided to giveher daughter an opportunity to accustom herself to her new home andsurroundings before allowing her to enter the high school. So the dayfor Marjorie's initial appearance in "The Sanford High School for Girls"had been set for the following Monday.

  It was now Friday afternoon. Marjorie had spent the morning in writing afifteen-page letter to Mary, the minor refrain of which was: "I can'ttell you how much I miss you, Mary," and which contained views regardingher future high school career that were far from being optimistic. Shehad not finished her letter. She decided to leave it open until afterluncheon and, laying it aside for the time, she had tripped down stairsand out doors.

  "What are you going to do this afternoon, dear?" asked her mother asMarjorie slipped into place at the luncheon table.

  "I don't know, Mother," was the almost doleful reply. "I thought I mighttake a walk up Orchard street as far as Sargent's, that cunning littleconfectioner's shop on the corner. Perhaps, if I go, I may see somethinginteresting to tell Mary. I haven't finished my letter."

  Marjorie did not add that her walk would include a last stroll past thetowering gray walls of a certain stone building on Lincoln avenue, whichbore over its massive oak doors the inscription, "The Sanford HighSchool for Girls." Almost every day since her arrival, she had visitedit, viewing it speculatively and with a curious kind of apprehension.She was not afraid to plunge into her new school life, but deep down inher heart she felt some little misgiving. What if the new girls provedto be neither likable nor companionable? What if she liked them but theydid not like her? She had just begun the same apprehensive train ofthought that had been disturbing her peace of mind for the last fourdays when her mother's voice broke the spell.

  "If you are going that far I wish you would go on to Parke & Whitfield'sfor me. I should like you to match this embroidery silk. I have notenough of it to finish this collar and cuff set I am making for you."

  "I'll be your faithful servant and execute all your commissions, mum,"declared Marjorie with a little obeisance, her spirits rising a littleat the prospect of actual errands to perform. She was already tired ofaimlessly wandering along the wide, well-kept streets of Sanford,feeling herself to be quite out of things. Even errands were actualblessings sometimes, she decided, as a little later, she ran upstairs todress.

  "May I wear my best suit and hat, Mother?" she called anxiously downfrom the head of the stairs. "It's such a lovely day, I'm sure it won'train, snow, hail or do anything else to spoil them."

  "Very well," answered Mrs. Dean, placidly.

  With a gurgle of delight Marjorie hurried into her room to put on hernew brown suit, which had the mark of a well-known tailor in the coat,and her best hat, on which all the Franklin High girls had set theirseal of approval. She had shoes and gloves to match her suit, too, andher dancing brown eyes and fluffy brown hair were the last touchesneeded to complete the dainty little study in brown.

  "Don't I look nice in this suit?" she asked her mother saucily, turningslowly around before the living-room mirror. "Aren't you and fatherperfect dears to let me have it, though?" She whirled and descended uponher mother with outstretched arms, enveloping her in an ecstatic hugthat sadly disturbed the proper angle of her brown velvet hat.

  "Don't be gone too long," reminded her mother. "You know father haspromised us tickets for the theatre to-night. We shall have an earlydinner."

  "All right, I'll remember, Captain." With a brisk touching of her handto her hat brim in salute Marjorie vanished through the door, toreappear a moment later at the living-room window, flash a merry smileat her mother, about face and march down the walk in true militarystyle.

  Long before when Marjorie was a tiny girl she had shown an unusualpreference for soldiers. She had owned enough wooden soldiers to make aregiment and was never at a loss to invent war games in which theyfigured. Sometimes, when she tired of her stiff, silent armies, whichcould only move as she willed, she inveigled her father or mother intobeing the hero, the enemy, the traitor or whatever her activeimagination chose to suggest. Her parents, amused at her boyish love ofmilitary things, encouraged her in her play and entered into it with asmuch spirit as the child herself. Her father, who had once been anofficer in the National Guard, taught her the manual of arms and she hadlearned it with a will.

  Marjorie's military enthusiasm had been at its height when she met MaryRaymond, who soon became equally fascinated with the stirring play. Intime other interests crowded their lives. The hard-worked armies werelaid peacefully on their wooden backs to enjoy a long, undisturbed rest,while Marjorie and Mary became soldiers instead, addressing Mr. Dean as"General," Mrs. Dean as "Captain," and bestowing upon themselves therank of ordinary enlisted soldiers who must earn their promotion byloyal and faithful service.

  Mr. Dean had been rather chary of promotions, frequently reminding hislittle detachment that it is a far cry from the ranks of a private tothat of a commissioned officer. So when their parting came, Mary andMarjorie had just received their commissions as second lieutenants,their awards of faithful service in the grammar school.

  Lieutenant Marjorie smiled, then sighed, as she started on her walk. Thesalute she had just given brought a flood of memories of Mary. She feltshe would not mind exploring this strange, new, high school territory ifMary were with her. She was sure no girl in Sanford could understand heras Mary had. On two different afternoons she had stood across the streetfrom the school at the time of dismissal. She had eagerly watched thegreat oak doors open wide and the long lines of girls file out, wakingthe still October air with their merry voices. She had been particularlyattracted toward one tall, lithe, graceful girl whose golden hair andbrown eyes made her unusually lovely. At first sight of her, lonely,imaginative Marjorie had named her "The Picture Girl," and had decidedthat she was a darling. She had noticed that the pretty girl was alwaysthe center of a group and she had also noted that one small,black-haired girl with an elfish face, who wore the most exquisiteclothes invariably walked at the tall girl's side. There was apink-cheeked girl, too, with laughing blue eyes and dimples, and afair-haired, serious-faced girl, who reminded Marjorie of Alice Duval.They usually formed part of the group about the tall girl and her darkcompanion, and there was also a very short, stout girl who puffed alonganxiously in the rear of the group as though never quite able to catchup.

  Marjorie
had already imagined much concerning this particular knot ofgirls, and her desire to see them again before entering school wasresponsible for her walk down Lincoln avenue that sunny fall afternoon.She would do her errands first, she decided, then, returning by the wayof the school, pass there just at the time that the afternoon sessionwas dismissed. She went about her far-from-arduous commissions inleisurely fashion, now and then glancing at her chatelaine watch to makesure of the time. Three o'clock saw the daily procession of girls downthe high school steps, and released from classes for the day. She didnot intend to miss them.

  It was twenty minutes to three when Marjorie finished a remarkableconcoction of nuts, chocolate syrup and ice cream, a kind of glorifiednut sundae, rejoicing in the name of "Sargent Nectar," and left thesmart little confectioner's shop. As she neared the school building hereyes suddenly became riveted upon a slim, blue-clad figure thathesitated for on instant at the top of the high steps then ran lightlydown and came hurrying toward where she stood.

  "The advance guard," declared Marjorie half aloud. Then, as her eyessought the approaching girl: "Why, she looks like Mary! And she's beencrying! I'm going to speak to her." She took an impulsive step forwardas the stranger came abreast of her and began:

  "Won't you----"

  Marjorie's speech ended abruptly. The weeping girl cast one startledglance toward her from a pair of wet blue eyes, lunged by her withoutspeaking and, breaking into a run, turned the corner and disappearedfrom view. Marjorie surveyed the back of the rapidly vanishing yellowhead with rueful surprise. Then she gave a short laugh.

  "I should have known better," she reflected. "Of course, she'd hardlycare to tell her personal affairs to the first one who asks her. But shemade me think of Mary. Oh, dear, I'm so homesick. Not even my new suitand hat can make me forget that. I wouldn't have mother know it for theworld. I believe she is a wee bit homesick, too."

  Marjorie paused for an instant at her accustomed place on the oppositeside of the street, undecided whether to loiter there and once morewatch her future companions pass out of school or to go on about herbusiness. Suddenly the school doors swung wide and the pupils beganflocking out. The little stranger yielded to the temptation to lingerlong enough to watch the five girls pass in whom she had becomeinterested. They were among the last to emerge and, the moment theyreached the steps, their voices rose in a confused babble, each onedetermined to make herself heard above the others.

  "I knew she wouldn't do it," shrilled the stout girl, as they nearedMarjorie. "She's too stingy for words. That's the third time she'srefused to go into things with the rest of us."

  "Be still," reminded the Picture Girl; "she might have very goodreasons----"

  "Good reasons," scornfully mimicked the little dark girl, her black eyesglittering angrily. "It was only because the plan was mine. She hatesme, and you all know why. I don't think you ought to stand up for her,Muriel. You know how deceitful she is and what unkind things she saidabout me."

  "I'm not standing up for her," contradicted Muriel, but her toneslacked force. "I only felt a little bit sorry for her. She looked readyto cry all the afternoon. I think she went home early to avoid meetingus."

  "That proves she is a coward," was the triumphant retort. "Remember----"With a sudden swift movement she rose on tiptoe and, drawing the PictureGirl's head to the level of her mouth, whispered something to her. Thefair-haired girl looked annoyed, the fat girl openly sulky and thedimpled girl disapproving. Exchanging significant glances, they walkedon ahead of the other two.

  Without the slightest intention of being an eavesdropper, Marjorie hadheard every word of the loud-spoken conversation. Her eyes were fixed infascination upon the dark, sharp-featured face so close to the fair,beautiful one. She suddenly recalled a picture she had once seen called"The Evil Genius," in which a dark, mocking face peered over theshoulder of a young man who sat at a table as though in deep thought.This girl's vivid face bore a slight resemblance to that of the EvilGenius, and it was not until the end of Marjorie's junior year inSanford that this sinister impression faded and disappeared forever.

  When the little company had passed on down the street, Marjorie turnedand followed them from a distance. For several blocks her way lay in thesame direction, but as she turned into her own street she swept a lastglance toward the five girls. She wondered whom they had been discussingso freely. She was vaguely disappointed in the Picture Girl, who seemedto her independent mind too easily influenced by the Evil Genius.Marjorie had already begun to think of the small, dark girl as that. Shewas glad not to be the girl they had discussed. Then, her thoughtchanging, a vision of two wet blue eyes and a tear-stained face set influffy yellow curls came to her, and Marjorie knew that she had seen theobject of their discussion. A wave of sympathy for the offender sweptover her. "I don't believe she could do anything deceitful or horrid,"she reflected stoutly. "Her eyes are as true and as blue as Mary's. I'mgoing to like her and be her friend, if she'll let me, for she certainlyseems to need one. I did so want to be friends with the Picture Girl,but I can't help wishing she had been just a little bit braver."

  While Marjorie strolled thoughtfully home, deep in her own cogitations,the five girls, having joined forces again, were discussing her.

  "Did you see that pretty girl standing across from the school as we cameout?" asked Susan Atwell, the girl with the dimples.

  "Yes," returned Irma Linton. "I noticed her there the other day, too. Iwonder who she can be."

  "I don't know," said Muriel Harding. "She is awfully sweet though, anddresses beautifully. She----"

  "I know all about her," interrupted Geraldine Macy. "Her father is thenew manager for Preston & Haines. They only moved here from the citylast week. Her name is Dean. That is, her last name. I don't know herother name."

  "I am surprised that you don't know that," was the sarcastic comment ofMignon La Salle, the little dark girl.

  "You needn't be," flung back the stout girl. "There are lots of things Idon't know that I'd like to know. For instance----"

  "Don't be cross, Jerry," interrupted Mignon, hastily. "I was onlyteasing you." She cast a peculiar glance at the ruffled Jerry from underher heavy lashes which the young woman failed to catch. "Tell us somemore about this new girl. I really didn't pay hardly any attention toher to-day."

  "There isn't anything more to tell that I know of," muttered Jerry,sulkily, her desire to distribute news quite gone. "Wait until Mondayand see. I know she's going to enter Sanford High and that she's afreshman."

  "Then as freshmen it's our solemn duty to be nice to her and make herfeel at home," stated Muriel, seriously.

  Mignon La Salle shrugged her thin shoulders. "Perhaps," she said,without enthusiasm. "I shall wait until I see her before I decide that."

  Meanwhile, Marjorie had reached home, and, seated before the librarytable, was writing for dear life on the letter she had begun to Mary. Sofar she had had nothing to tell her chum regarding the young women whowere to be her classmates. To be sure, what she had seen and heard thatafternoon had amounted to nothing, but the girl who looked like Mary hadset her to longing all over again to be able, just for one afternoon, tosit side by side on the front steps with her childhood's friend and talkthings over.

  "You can't imagine, Mary," she wrote, "how sorry I felt when I saw thatpoor girl crying with your eyes. They were just like yours. I forgoteverything except that she looked like you, and asked her what thetrouble was. Of course, she didn't answer me, but actually ran down thestreet. I should have known better, but I felt so terribly sympathetic.'Terribly' is the only word that expresses it. Right after she had gonethe others began to come out of school, and at last the five girls Itold you about came out. They were all talking at once, but I heard thehorrid, sharp-faced, dark girl say that someone was stingy and deceitfuland a lot of other unpleasant things. I thought the Picture Girl wasgoing to stand up for the person, but that mean little Evil Geniuswouldn't let her. Then all at once it came to me that it was this Marygirl they were talkin
g about. It was really this one dark girl who saidmost of the mean things. The others just listened to her. At any rate,I'm going to find out who the Mary girl is and try to be a friend to herjust because she looks like you. Don't imagine I could ever like herbetter than you, because you know I couldn't. But it's a true soldier'sduty to stand by his comrades on the firing line, you know, and I amgoing to be this girl's freshman comrade, and, if she's one-half as niceas you, I'll be ready to help her fight her battles.

  "Monday is the great day. I dread it, and yet I am looking forward toit. I like the outside of the school, but will I like the inside? Motheris going to the principal's office with me. I hope I sha'n't have to trya lot of tiresome examinations. I have forgotten everything I ever knew,and the weather has been too pleasant to study. This is such a prettytown, with plenty of nice walks. If only you were here it would be quiteperfect. I do hope you can come and visit me at Easter. Must stop now,as I hear mother calling me. We are going to walk down to meet father.With my dearest love. Write soon.

  "Yours always,

  "Marjorie."

  Marjorie folded, addressed and stamped her letter, then catching herhat from the hallrack ran out the front door to overtake her mother whohad walked on ahead.

  "I finished my letter to Mary," she held it up for inspection, "and I'vesomething to report, Captain."

  "I am ready to hear you," smiled her mother, as they walked on arm inarm.

  For the second time Marjorie related her little adventure, ending withher resolve to learn to know and befriend, if necessary, the girl wholooked like Mary. Nor did she have the slightest premonition of how muchthis readily-avowed championing of a stranger was to cost her.