THE LATEST SOPHOMORE ARRIVAL
Though the evening of the dance had been deceitfully clear and balmy,
dark clouds banked the autumn sky before morning and the day broke in a
downpour of rain. It was a doubly dreary morning to poor little Mary
Raymond and over and over again Longfellow's plaintive lines,
"Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary,"
repeated themselves in her brain. Yes, rain had indeed fallen into her
life. The bitter rain of false friendship. All the days must from now on
be dark and dreary. Last night she had danced the hours away, secure in
the thought that Marjorie would not fail her. And Marjorie had spoken no
word of explanation. During the drive home she had talked gaily of the
dance and of the boys and girls who had attended it. She had related
bright bits of freshman history concerning them, but on the subject of
Constance Stevens and her affairs she had been mute. Mary fancied she
had purposely avoided the subject. In this respect she was quite
correct. Marjorie, still a little disturbed over her promise to
Constance, had tried to direct Mary's mind to other matters. Deeply
hurt, rather than jealous, Mary had listened to Marjorie in silence. She
managed to make a few comments on the dance, and pleading that she was
too sleepy for a night-owl talk, had kissed Marjorie good night rather
coldly and hurried to her room. Stopping only to lock the door, she had
thrown herself on her bed in her pretty evening frock and given vent to
long, tearless sobs that left her wide awake and mourning, far into the
night. It was, therefore, not strange that lack of sleep, coupled with
her supposed dire wrongs, had caused her to awaken that morning in a
mood quite suited to the gloom of the day.
A vigorous rattling of the door knob caused her to spring from her bed
with a half petulant exclamation.
"Let me in, Mary," called Marjorie's fresh young voice from the hall.
"Whatever made you lock your door? I guess you were so sleepy you didn't
know what you were about."
Mary turned the key and opened the door with a jerk. Marjorie pounced
upon her like a frolicsome puppy. Wrapping her arms around her chum, she
whirled her about and half the length of the room in a wild dance.
"Let me alone, please." Mary pulled herself pettishly from Marjorie's
clinging arms.
"Why, Lieutenant, what's the matter? You aren't sick, are you? If you
are, I'm sorry I was so rough. If you're just sleepy, then I'm not. You
needed waking up. It's a quarter to eight now and we'll have to hustle.
Captain let us sleep until the last minute. Now, which are you, sick or
sleepy?"
"Both," returned Mary laconically. "I--that is--my head aches."
"Poor darling. Was Marjorie a naughty girl to tease her when her was so
sick?" Marjorie sought to comfort her chum, but Mary eluded her
sympathetic caress and said almost crossly, "Don't baby me. I--I hate
being babied and you know it."
Marjorie's arms dropped to her sides. "I didn't mean to tease you. I'm
sorry. I'll go down and ask Captain to give you something to cure your
headache." She turned abruptly and left the room, deeply puzzled and
slightly hurt. What on earth ailed Mary?
The moment the door closed Mary pattered into the bathroom and banged
the door. She hurried through her bath and was partly dressed when
Marjorie returned with a little bottle of aspirin tablets. "One of
these will fix up your head," she declared cheerily.
"I don't want it," muttered Mary. "My head is all right now."
"That is what I would call a marvelous recovery," laughed Marjorie. "I
wish Captain's headaches would take wing so easily. You know what
dreadful sick headaches she sometimes has. She had one on the first day
I went to Sanford High, and I had to go alone."
"I remember," nodded Mary carelessly. "That was one of the things you
_did_ write me."
"I wrote you lots of things," retorted Marjorie lightly, failing to
catch the significance of Mary's words. "But now you are here, I don't
have to write them. I can _say_ them."
"Then, why don't you?" was on Mary's tongue, but she did not say it.
Instead, she maintained a half sulky silence, as she walked to the
wardrobe and began fingering the gowns hung there. Selecting a blue
serge dress, made sailor fashion, she slipped into it and began
fastening it as she walked to the mirror. Marjorie stood watching her,
with a half frown. She did not understand this new mood of Mary's. The
Mary she had formerly known had been sunny and light-hearted. The girl
who stood before the mirror, grave and unsmiling, was a stranger.
"I'm ready to go downstairs." Mary turned slowly from the mirror and
walked toward the door. Beneath her quiet exterior, a silent struggle
was going on. Should she speak her mind once and for all to Marjorie, or
should she go on enduring in silence? Perhaps it would be best to speak
and have things out. Then, at least, they would understand each other.
Then her pride whispered to her that it was Marjorie's and not her place
to speak. Marjorie must know something of her state of mind. At heart
she must be just the least bit ashamed of herself for shutting her out
of her personal affairs. Had they not sworn long ago to tell each other
their secrets. _She_ had always kept her word. It was Marjorie who had
failed to do so. No, she would not humble herself. Marjorie might keep
her secrets, for all _she_ cared. She was sorry that she had ever come
to Sanford. Now that she was here she would have to stay. If she wrote
her father to take her away, her mother would have to be told. Mary was
resolved that no matter what happened to her, her mother must be spared
all anxiety. She would try to bear it. Marjorie should never know how
deeply she was wounded. She would pretend that all was as it had been
before.
Mrs. Dean looked up from her letters, as the two girls entered the
dining room.
"Hurry, children," she admonished. "You haven't much time to spare.
These social affairs completely break up army discipline. Look out you
don't go to sleep at your post this morning."
"Who's sleepy? Not I," boasted Marjorie. "I feel as though I'd slept for
hours and hours. Your army is ready for duty, Captain. Lieutenant Mary's
headache has been put to rout and everything is lovely."
"Are you sure you feel quite well, dear?" questioned Mrs. Dean
anxiously. She noted that Mary was very pale and that her eyes looked
strained and tired.
"I'm quite well now, thank you." The ghost of a smile flickered on her
pale face.
"Did you enjoy the dance? It was nice in Connie to give it in your
honor. We are all very fond of her and of little Charlie."
Mary's wan face brightened at the mention of the child's name. "Isn't he
dear?" she asked impulsively.
"Mary has stolen Charlie from me," put in Marjorie. "He adores her
already. I don't blame him. So do I, and so does Connie, too. We three
are going to have splendid times together this winter."
During the rest of the breakfast Marjorie regaled her mother with an
account of the dance. Mary said little or nothing, but amid her friend's
merry chatter her silence passed unnoticed.
"Wear your raincoats," called Mrs. Dean after them, as, their breakfast
finished, they ran upstairs for their wraps.
Fifteen minutes later they had joined the bobbing umbrella procession
that wended its way into the high school building.
"You'll have to go to Miss Merton, Mary, and be assigned to a seat. She
didn't give you one yesterday, did she?" asked Marjorie. "You can put
your wraps in our locker. We are to have the same lockers we had last
year. Connie and I have a locker together. There is lots of room in it
for your things, too. I'll task Marcia Arnold to let you in with us. She
has charge of the lockers."
Mary's first impulse was to decline this friendly offer. On second
thought she closed her lips tightly, resolved to make no protest.
Later--well, there was no telling what might happen.
"Don't be afraid of Miss Merton," was Marjorie's whispered counsel, as
they crossed the threshold of the study hall. "She can't eat you."
"I'm not afraid." Mary's lip curled a trifle scornfully. Marjorie
treated her as though she were a baby.
"I have come to you for my seat," was her terse statement, as she paused
squarely before Miss Merton's desk.
Miss Merton glanced up to meet the unflinching gaze of two purposely
cold blue eyes. Something in their direct gaze made her answer with
undue civility, "Very well. I will assign you to one. Come with me."
She stalked down the aisle, Mary following, to the last seat in one of
the two sophomore rows, and paused before it. "This will be your seat
for the year," she said.
"Thank you." Mary sat down and took account of her surroundings. Across
the aisle on one side, Susan Atwell's dimpled face flashed her a
welcome. On the other side sat a tall, severe junior who wore
eye-glasses. The seat in front of her was vacant. Marjorie sat far down
the same row. Mary could just see the top of her curly head. It still
lacked five minutes of opening time and the students were, for the most
part, conversing in low tones. Now and then an accidentally loud note
caused Miss Merton to raise her head from her writing and glare severely
at the offender.
Susan Atwell leaned across the aisle and patted Mary's hand in friendly
fashion. "I'm so glad you are going to sit here," she said in an
undertone. "I was afraid Miss Merton would put some old slow-poke there
who wouldn't say 'boo' or pass notes or do anything to help the
sophomore cause along."
"I'm glad she put me near you," returned Mary affably. She had made up
her mind to win friends. They would be indispensable to her now that all
was over between her and Marjorie. "I don't imagine that tall girl is
very sociable."
"She's a dig and a prig," giggled Susan. "You'd get no recreation from
labor from that quarter."
Mary echoed Susan's infectious giggle. "Who sits in front of me?" she
asked.
"No one, yet. Who knows what manner of girl is in store for us? That's
the only vacant seat in the section. The first late arrival into our
midst will get it. I don't believe we'll have any more girls, though,
unless someone comes into school late as Marjorie came last year. It's
too bad. It makes an awkward stretch if one wants to pass a note. I
always am caught if I throw one. Last year I threw one and hit Miss
Merton in the back. She was standing quite a little way down the aisle.
I thought it was a splendid opportunity. I'd been waiting to send one to
Irma Linton, who sat two seats in front of me. The girl between us
wouldn't pass it. So I threw it, and it went further than I thought."
Susan's fascinating giggle burst forth anew. She rocked to and fro in
merriment at the recollection.
Mary found herself laughing in concert. Just then the opening bell
clanged forth its harsh note of warning. The low buzz of voices in the
great study hall died into silence. Every pair of eyes faced front. Miss
Merton rose from her chair to conduct the opening exercises. A sudden
murmur that swept the hall caused her to say sternly, "Silence." Then,
noting that the eyes of her pupils were fixed in concerted gaze on the
study-hall door, she turned sharply.
A black-haired, black-eyed girl, whose elfish face wore an expression of
mingled contempt and amusement, advanced into the room with a decided
air of one who wishes to create an impression.
"Mignon!" gasped Susan. "Well, _what_ do you think of that?"