SOWING THE SEED OF DISCORD
"Before you talk of another single thing, Mary Raymond, please tell me
what you mean by a 'mysterious mission' that is 'part sad and part
glad,'" exclaimed Marjorie.
Mr. Raymond was occupying the front seat of the automobile, beside Mrs.
Dean, who drove the car, a birthday present from her husband, and the
two girls had the tonneau of the automobile to themselves. They had
scarcely deposited Mary's luggage on the floor of the car and settled
themselves for the short ride to the Deans' home when Marjorie had made
her eager inquiry into the nature of the "mysterious mission" that had
so aroused her curiosity.
"Well," began Mary, brightening, "father and I _have_ come to see you on
a mission, but the only mystery about it is that you don't as yet know
why we've come. I thought 'mysterious mission' looked rather well on
paper so I set it down."
"But you're going to tell me about it this instant, you wicked,
tantalizing girl," insisted Marjorie with pretended sternness.
"I thought perhaps you might be able to guess certain things from my
letter," continued Mary. "You see, I wrote you that mother would have to
go to Colorado for the winter and----"
"You are going with her," supplemented Marjorie.
"No, that's a wild guess. I'm not going west with her. Father says I
must stay in the East and go through my sophomore year in high school."
"But you can't stay at home by yourself, Mary. Just think how dreadful
that would be for you, with your father away most of the time," reminded
Marjorie.
Mary's father was a traveling salesman for a large furniture
manufactory, and spent the greater part of his time on the road.
"That's just the point," responded Mary. "I know I can't stay at home
alone. Mother's illness and what is to become of me when father goes on
the road again is the sad part of it, but the glad part is--oh,
Marjorie, can't you guess now?" Mary caught Marjorie's hand in hers.
"We've come all the way to Sanford to see if," her voice rose high with
excitement, "there isn't a little corner in the Dean barracks that a
certain lieutenant can call her own for this year and----"
"Mary!" It was Marjorie's turn to become excited. "Do you really mean
that you wish to come to live with me and enter Sanford High? That we'll
be sophomores together?"
Mary clung to Marjorie's hand and nodded. For a moment she was too near
to tears for speech. But they were tears of happiness. Marjorie really
desired her for a best friend after all. Her sudden jealousy of
Constance Stevens vanished.
"I should say that was a _glad_ part of your mission," laughed Marjorie
happily. "I don't know what I've ever done to deserve such good fortune.
Mother will be glad, too. She loves you almost as much as she loves me."
"Oh, Mother," Marjorie leaned impulsively forward, "Mary's coming to
live with me this year while her mother is in Colorado. You'll have two
lieutenants instead of one to look after. We are going to win sophomore
honors together and be promoted to be captains next June!"
"There," declared Mr. Raymond with comical resignment, "now you have let
the cat out of the bag with a vengeance, Mary Raymond. All this time I
had been planning to ask Mrs. Dean, in my most ingratiating manner, if
she thought she might possibly make room for a certain very frisky
member of my family for a while. I had intended to proceed carefully and
diplomatically so that she wouldn't be too much shocked at such a
prospect, but now----"
"It's all settled, isn't it, Mother?" interrupted Marjorie. "You are
just as anxious as I for Mary to come and live with us, aren't you?"
"Shall I stop the car in the middle of the street and assure you of my
willingness to increase my regiment?" laughed Mrs. Dean.
"No, no," protested Marjorie. "Let's hurry home as fast as we can and
talk it over. We're only two squares from our house now. Besides, I've
planned everything already. Mary can have the spare bedroom next to my
house." Marjorie always referred to her room as her "house." "There's
only the bath between and we'll use that together, and have a regular
house of our own. Oh, Mary, won't it be perfectly splendid?"
Regardless of what passersby might think, Mary and Marjorie embraced
with an enthusiasm that threatened to land them both in the tonneau of
the rapidly moving car, while their elders smiled at this reckless
display of affection.
The automobile had hardly come to a full stop on the broad driveway,
that wound through the wide stretch of lawn that was one of the chief
beauties of the Deans' pretty home, when Marjorie swung open the door
and skipped nimbly out of the car with, "Welcome home, Mary!"
Mary was only an instant behind Marjorie in leaving the car, and the two
hugged each other afresh out of pure joy of living.
"Take Mary up to her room at once, dear," directed Mrs. Dean. "I'm sure
she must be tired and hungry after her long ride in the train. We will
have an early dinner to-night. I expect Mr. Dean home at almost any
moment," she continued, turning to Mr. Raymond.
"Come on, Mary." Marjorie had lifted Mary's bag from the automobile. Now
she stretched forth an inviting hand to Mary, and piloted her across the
lawn and up the short stretch of stone walk to the front door. The door
opened and a trim, rosy-cheeked maid appeared as by magic. She reached
for Mary's bag, but Marjorie waved her gently aside.
"I'll do the honors, Delia. You can look after mother and Mr. Raymond.
We are very self-sufficient persons who don't need anything except a
chance to go upstairs and talk ourselves hoarse."
A wide smile irradiated the maid's goodnatured face, as she stepped
aside to allow Marjorie and Mary to enter the hall.
"What a darling house!" Mary's glance traveled about the pretty Dutch
hall to the large, comfortable living room beyond. "You have oceans of
room here, haven't you?"
Marjorie nodded. "Yes; when first we came here I felt lost. It was
actually lonesome. It took me a whole week to grow accustomed to looking
out without seeing rows of brick houses across the street and on each
side of me. Don't you remember, I wrote you all about it? You see, I
didn't enter high school until we'd been here almost two weeks, and in
all that time I never met a single girl. I felt like a shipwrecked
sailor on a great, big, lonely, old island. Shall we go upstairs now?
I'm so anxious to have you see my 'house.' It's a house within a house,
you know. Mother had it all done up in pink and white for me, and I
spent hours in it. Your house is blue. I made general and captain let
me have one of the spare bedrooms done in blue, so that when you came to
visit me you'd feel at home. And now it's going to be your very own for
a whole year! It's too good to be true."
Releasing Mary's hand, Marjorie led the way up the stairs to the second
floor and down the short hall to her "house." Mary cried out in
admiration at her friend's dainty room. She walked about, exclaiming
over its perfect details after the manner of girls, then three minutes
later the two somehow found themselves seated side by side on Marjorie's
pretty white bed, their arms about each other's waists, and fairly
launched into one of the good, old-time confabs they were wont to
indulge in when the top step of the Deans' veranda in B---- had been
their favorite trysting place.
Half an hour later Mrs. Dean entered the room to find them still talking
at an alarming rate, the rest of their world apparently forgotten.
"I might have known it," she smiled. "Why, you haven't even taken off
your hats, and dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Marjorie, you are a
most neglectful hostess."
"Oh, we don't mind having dinner with our hats on," returned Marjorie
cheerfully. Then, rising, she took off her broad-brimmed Panama, and
began gently pulling the pins from Mary's hat. "Make it fifteen minutes,
instead of ten, Captain, and we'll be as spick and span as you please."
"Discipline seems to be very lax in these barracks," commented Mrs.
Dean. "I am afraid I ought to call upon General to help me enforce my
orders. Under the circumstances I'll be lenient, though, and stretch the
time to fifteen minutes. There, I hear General downstairs now!"
She disappeared from the doorway and immediately a great scurrying about
began, punctuated with much talk and laughter. To Marjorie it seemed as
though she had not been so happy for ages. It was wonderful to know that
her beloved Mary was actually with her once more, and still more
wonderful that she would continue to be with her indefinitely.
At dinner she beamed joyously across the table at the little blue-eyed
girl, while their elders discussed and settled her destiny for the
coming year. Mr. and Mrs. Dean met Mr. Raymond's request in behalf of
his daughter with the whole-heartedness that so characterized them. In
fact, they were highly in favor of receiving Mary as a member of their
little household.
"Two soldiers are better than one," asserted Mr. Dean humorously. "I
believe in preparedness. 'In times of peace prepare for war,' you know.
With such a valiant army under my command I could do wonders if attacked
by the enemy."
After dinner they all repaired to the living room, where the discussion
of the all-important subject was continued, and when at eleven o'clock
two sleepy, but blissfully happy, lieutenants climbed the stairs to bed,
Mary Raymond lacked nothing except actual adoption papers, signed and
sealed, to admit her into the Deans' hospitable fold.
Yet there was one tiny drawback to Mary's joy. Try as she might she
could not forget Constance Stevens and Marjorie's too evident fondness
for her. From Marjorie's early letters she had formed the conclusion
that Constance was merely a poor nobody, whom her chum, with her usual
spirit of generosity had tried to befriend. Marjorie's later letters had
contained little pertaining to Constance. Mary had not known of the long
period of estrangement between Constance and Marjorie that had so nearly
wrecked their budding friendship, and of the many changes that time had
wrought in the life of the girl who looked like her. She had, therefore,
been quite unprepared to meet the dainty, well-dressed young woman whom
Marjorie appeared to hold in such strong affection. She reflected that
night, a trifle resentfully, after Marjorie had kissed her good-night
and left her, that it was very strange in Marjorie not to have put her
in possession of the real facts of the case. Still, it was really not
her affair. If Marjorie chose to become chummy with Constance without
even writing a word of it to her, there was nothing to do except to be
silent over the whole affair. Perhaps Marjorie would tell her all about
it later. Certainly she would ask no questions. And then and there,
little, blue-eyed Mary Raymond made her first mistake, and sowed a tiny
seed of discord in her jealous heart that was fated later to bear bitter
fruit.