AN UNCALLED-FOR REBUFF
The great study hall which Marjorie and Mary entered had little of the
atmosphere supposed to pervade a hall of learning. A loud buzz of
conversation greeted their ears. It came from the groups of girls
collected in various parts of the hall, who were making the most of
their opportunities to talk until called to order. Marjorie gave one
swift glance toward the lonely desk on the platform. It had always
reminded her of an island in the midst of a great sea. She breathed a
little sigh of relief. Her pet aversion, Miss Merton, was not occupying
the chair behind it. This, no doubt, accounted for the general air of
relaxation that pervaded the room. Her alert eyes searched the room for
Constance Stevens. She was not present. She gave another sigh, this time
it was one of disappointment. She had seen Constance only twice since
Mary's arrival. On one occasion she had taken dinner at the Deans' home.
The three girls had spent, what seemed to Marjorie, an unusually
pleasant evening. Constance, feeling dimly that Mary did not quite
approve of her, had dropped her usually reticent manner and exerted
herself to please. So well had she succeeded that Mary had rather
unwillingly succumbed to her charm and grown fairly cordial.
Totally unconscious of the shadow which had darkened the pleasure of
Constance's first meeting with Mary, and equally ignorant of Mary's
secret resentment of her new friend, Marjorie had retired that night
inwardly rejoicing in both girls and planning all sorts of good times
that they three might have together.
Several days later Constance had entertained them at luncheon at "Gray
Gables," the beautiful, old-fashioned house Miss Allison had purchased,
on the outskirts of Sanford. Mary had been secretly impressed with its
luxury and had instantly made friends with little Charlie. The quaint
child had gravely informed her that she looked like Connie and
immediately taken her into his confidence regarding his aspirations
toward some day playing in "a big band." He had also obligingly favored
her with a solo of marvelous shrieks and squawks on his much tortured
"fiddle." Mary loved children, and this, perhaps, went far toward
stilling the jealousy, which, so far, only faintly stirring, bade fair
to one day burst forth into bitter words.
"I'll see you in school on Monday," Marjorie had called over her
shoulder, as she and Mary had taken their departure from Constance's
home that afternoon. But now Monday had come and there was no sign of
the girl Marjorie held so dear in the study hall.
"Connie had better hurry. It's five minutes to nine. She'll be late."
Marjorie's gaze traveled anxiously toward the door. An unmistakable
frown puckered Mary's brows, but Marjorie did not see it.
"Oh, Marjorie Dean, here you are at last. We've been waiting for you."
Susan Atwell left a group of girls with which she had been hob-nobbing
and hurried down the aisle. "Come over here, you dear thing. We've been
looking our eyes out for you." She stopped short and stared hard at
Mary. "Why, I thought----" she began.
"You thought it was Connie, didn't you?" laughed Marjorie. She
introduced Mary to Susan.
"The girls over there thought you were Constance Stevens, too," smiled
Susan, showing her dimples. "You see, Marjorie and Connie are
inseparable, so, of course, we naturally mistook you for her. I never
saw two girls look so much alike. If we have a fancy dress party this
year you two can surely go as the Siamese Twins. Wouldn't that be
great?"
Mary smiled perfunctorily. She had her own views in the matter, and
they did not in the least coincide with Susan's.
A moment later they were hemmed in by an enthusiastic bevy of girls,
each one trying to make herself heard above the others. Marjorie was
besieged on all sides with eager inquiries. The girls had discovered, as
she neared them, that her companion was not Constance Stevens. Marjorie,
at once, did the honors and Mary found herself nodding in quick
succession to half a dozen girls.
"You fooled us all for a minute, Miss Raymond," cried Muriel Harding.
"She didn't fool me," announced Jerry Macy, who had joined them just in
time to hear Muriel's remark. "I knew she was coming, but I kept still
because I wanted to see you girls stare."
"Look around the room, Marjorie," observed Irma Linton in a guarded
tone. "Do you miss anyone? Not Constance. I wonder where she is?"
"I don't know." Marjorie's eyes took in the big room, then again sought
the door. "She said she would meet me here this morning. Let me see. Do
I miss anyone? Do you mean a girl in our class, Irma?"
Irma nodded.
Marjorie cast another quick look about her. "Why, no. Oh, now I know.
You mean Mignon."
Again Irma nodded. Under cover of a burst of laughter from the others
she murmured, "Mignon won't be with us this year. You will observe, if
you look hard, that I'm not weeping over our loss."
Marjorie was silent for a moment. The past rode before her like a
panorama, as the thought of the elfish-faced French girl and of how
deeply she had caused both herself and Constance Stevens to suffer. Her
pretty face hardened a trifle as she said, in a low voice, "I'm not
sorry, either, Irma. But why won't she be in high school this year? Has
she moved away from Sanford? I haven't seen her since we came home from
the beach."
"She has gone away to boarding school," answered Irma. "Between you and
me, I think she was ashamed to come back here this year. Susan told me
that her father wanted her to stay in high school and go to college, but
she teased and teased to go away to school, so finally he said she
might. She left here over two weeks ago. One of the girls received a
letter from her last week. In it she said she was so glad she didn't
have to go to a common high school and that the girls in her school were
not milk-and-water babies, but had a great deal of spirit and daring."
Marjorie's lip curled unconsciously. "I'd rather be a 'milk-and-water
baby' than as cruel and heartless as she. I'll never forgive her for the
way she treated Connie. Let's not talk of her, Irma. It makes me feel
cross and horrid, and, of all days, I'd like to be happy to-day. There's
so much to be happy over, and I'm so glad to see all of you. Life would
be a desert waste without high school, wouldn't it?"
Marjorie's soft hand found Irma's. She was very fond of this quiet,
fair-haired girl, who, with Jerry Macy, had stood by her so resolutely
through dark days.
"Here she comes--our dear teacher. Look out, girls, or you'll be ushered
out of Sanford High before you've had a chance to look at the bulletin
board," warned Muriel Harding's high-pitched voice. Her sarcastic
remarks carried farther than she had intended they should, as a sudden
hush had fallen upon the study hall. Miss Merton, Marjorie's pet
aversion, had stalked into the great room. She cast a malignant glance,
not at Muriel, but straight at Marjorie Dean.
"Oh," gasped Muriel and Marjorie in united consternation.
"That's the time you did it, Muriel," muttered Jerry Macy. "I always
told you that you ought to be an orator or an oratress or something.
Your voice carries a good deal farther than it ought to. Only Miss
Merton didn't think it was you who made those smart remarks. She thought
it was Marjorie. Now she'll have a new grievance to nurse this year."
"I'm awfully sorry." Muriel was the picture of contrition. "I didn't
intend she should hear me--but to blame you for it! That's dreadful.
I'll go straight and tell her that I said it."
Muriel made a quick movement as though to carry out her intention.
Marjorie caught her by the arm. "You'll do nothing of the sort, Muriel
Harding. My sophomore shoulders are broad enough to beat it. Perhaps she
didn't really hear what you said. She can't dislike me any more for that
than she did before she thought I said it."
"Young ladies, I am waiting for you to come to order. Will you kindly
cease talking and take seats?" Miss Merton's raucous voice broke
harshly upon the abashed group of girls. They scuttled into the
nearest seats at hand like a bevy of startled partridges.
"What a horrid woman," was Mary Raymond's thought, as she slipped into a
seat in front of Marjorie, and stared resentfully at the rigid figure,
so devoid of womanly beauty, in its severe brown linen dress, unrelieved
by even a touch of white at the neck.
With a final glare at Marjorie, the teacher proceeded at once to the
business at hand. Within the next few minutes she had arranged the girls
of the freshman class in the section of the study hall they were to
occupy during the coming year. Marjorie awaited the turn of the
sophomores to be assigned to a seat with inward trepidation. She had had
no opportunity to introduce Mary to Miss Merton. What should she do? She
half rose from the seat, then sat down undecidedly.
Miss Merton had arranged the freshmen to her satisfaction. Now she was
calling for the sophomores to rise. Perhaps she would not notice Mary.
If she did not, then Mary could pass with the sophomores to their
section. As soon as the session was dismissed, she would introduce her
to Miss Merton.
But Miss Merton was lynx-eyed. "That girl there in the blue dress," she
blared forth. "You were not in the freshman class last year."
Mary turned in her seat and shot a glance of appeal to Marjorie. The
girl rose bravely in friend's behalf.
"Miss Merton," she said in her clear, young voice, "I brought Miss
Raymond here with me. She----"
"You are not supposed to bring visitors to school, Miss Dean," was the
teacher's sarcastic reminder.
Marjorie's eyes kindled with wrath. Then, mastering her anger, she made
courteous reply. "She is not a visitor. She expects to enter the
sophomore class."
"Come down to this front seat, young woman," ordered Miss Merton,
ignoring Marjorie's explanation. "I'll attend to you later."
Mary sat still, surveying Miss Merton out of two belligerent blue eyes.
"Do as she says, Mary," whispered Marjorie.
Mary obeyed. Walking down the aisle with maddening deliberation, she
seated herself on the bench indicated.
"No talking," rasped Miss Merton, as a faint murmur went up from the
girls in the sophomore section.
Once the classes had been assigned to their places for the year there
was little more to be done. Nettled by her recent resentment against
Marjorie, Miss Merton took occasion to deliver a sharp lecture on good
conduct in general, making several pointed remarks, which caused
Marjorie to color hotly. More than one pair of young eyes glared their
resentment of this harsh teacher who had never lost an opportunity in
the past school year of censuring their favorite.
The moment the short session was over the girls of her particular set
gravitated toward Marjorie.
"Well, of all the old cranks!" scolded Geraldine Macy.
"She's the most hateful teacher in the world," was Muriel Harding's
tribute.
"I wouldn't pay any attention to her, Marjorie. I'd go straight to Miss
Archer," advised Susan Atwell. "Just see her now! She looks as though
she'd actually snap at your friend."
Miss Merton was engaged in interviewing the still belligerent Mary, who
stood listening to her, a sulky droop to her pretty mouth.
"Oh, I must go and help Mary out. Wait for me outside, girls."
"Do you need any help?" inquired Jerry. "I never was afraid of Miss
Merton, if you'll remember."
"Oh, no." Marjorie hurried toward her friend, and stood quietly at
Mary's side.
"Well, Miss Dean, what is it?" Miss Merton eyed Marjorie with her most
disagreeable expression.
"I came to tell you, Miss Merton," began Marjorie in her direct fashion,
"that Miss Raymond saw Miss Archer this morning before we came to the
study hall. She sent us----"
"That will do, Miss Dean," interrupted Miss Merton. "I hope Miss Raymond
is capable of attending to her affairs without your assistance. I should
greatly prefer that you go on about your own business and leave this
matter to me. I believe I have been a teacher in Sanford High School
long enough to be trusted to manage my own work."
A bitter retort rose to Marjorie's lips. She forced it back and with a
dignified bow to Miss Merton and, "I will wait for you in the corridor,
Mary," walked from the room, her head held high, her eyes burning with
resentful tears.