CHOOSING HER OWN WAY
Marjorie stood staring at her locker as one in a dream.
"Hurry up, Marjorie!" Jerry Macy's loud, matter-of-fact tones broke the
spell. Behind her were Irma Linton and Susan Atwell. The faces of the
three were alive with suppressed excitement. Jerry caught sight of the
tell-tale locker and emitted an indignant snort.
"Mary took her advice, Susie! If I were the President of the United
States I'd have that Mignon La Salle deported to the South Sea Islands,
or Kamchatka, or some place where she couldn't get back in a hurry. It
would be a good deal farther than boarding school, I can just tell you,"
she ended with an angry sputter.
Marjorie faced the battery of indignant young faces. "What is the
trouble, girls?" She tried to keep her voice steady, though she was at
the point of tears.
"What's the matter with your friend, Mary Raymond, Marjorie?" continued
Jerry in a slightly lower key. "Has she gone suddenly crazy or--or----"
Jerry hesitated. She could not voice the other question which rose to
her lips.
"Girls," Marjorie viewed her friends with brave, direct eyes, "you know
something that I don't about Mary. What is it?"
"It's about Mignon," blurted Jerry. "Susie says that the minute she
landed in her seat she began talking to Mary."
"I made signs to Mary to pay no attention to her," broke in Susan
Atwell, "but she didn't understand what I meant and I couldn't explain,
with Mignon sitting right there. The next thing I saw, they were walking
down the aisle together as though they'd known each other all their
lives."
"Yes, and they came into geometry together, too," supplemented Jerry.
"But that's not the worst. Tell Marjorie what you overheard, Susie."
"Well," began Susan, looking important, "when I came back to the study
hall just before the last class was called, they were both there ahead
of me. Just as I was going to sit down at my desk I heard Mignon tell
Mary she'd love to have her share her locker. Mary was looking awfully
sober and pretty cross, too, as though she were mad about something. I
heard her say, 'How can I get my wraps?' and Mignon said, 'Go to Marcia
Arnold and see if you can borrow Miss Stevens' key for a minute. If she
hasn't come back to school yet, very likely Marcia has it. Tell her you
want to take something from it and don't care to bother Miss Dean. You
can easily do it, because you haven't a recitation at this hour. I'd get
it for you, but I haven't any good reason for asking her for it.' I
couldn't hear what Mary said, but she left her seat and I saw her stop
at Miss Merton's desk. Miss Merton nodded her head and Mary went on out
of the study hall. Mignon saw me looking after her and smiled that
hateful smile of hers. I was so cross I made a face at her. Then the
third bell rang and I had to go to class. I wasn't sure whether Mary did
as Mignon told her to do until we saw you staring into your locker and
Jerry called my attention to it."
Marjorie listened gravely to Susan's recital. She stood surveying the
three girls in silence.
"What has happened, Marjorie?" questioned Jerry impatiently. "Or isn't
it any of our business? If it isn't, then forget that I asked you."
"Girls," Marjorie's clear voice trembled a little, "I think I'd better
tell you about it. At first I thought I couldn't bear to tell anyone,
but as long as you all know something of what happened to Connie and I
last year, you might as well know this, too. Miss Archer made a remark
to me about our misunderstanding yesterday when Mary was with me. Mary
asked me afterward what she meant. I wanted to tell her, but I didn't
feel as though I had the right to, until I asked Connie if I could. I
was going to ask her last night, but before I had a chance she asked me
not to tell Mary about it. She was afraid Mary might not understand
and--and blame her. Of course, I knew that Mary wouldn't mind in the
least, but Connie seemed so worried that I promised I wouldn't."
Jerry Macy's frown deepened. Susan Atwell made a faint gesture of
consternation, while Irma Linton looked distressed and sympathetic.
"I thought perhaps Mary would forget about Constance," went on Marjorie.
"I never dreamed that Mignon was coming back, let alone she and Mary
becoming friendly. I saw them go down the aisle to geometry class
together and followed them. You see, Mary and I had planned to recite in
the same section. I asked her to wait and recite later, but she
wouldn't. Then I changed my hour so as to be in her class. After class I
caught up with her. She began to tell me something about what Mignon had
said of Connie. It made me so cross that I interrupted her, almost
before she had started. I told her she must have nothing to say to
Mignon and--she--I guess I hurt her feelings, for she walked off
and--left--me." Marjorie ended with a half sob. She turned her face to
the locker and leaned against it. The tears that she had bravely forced
back now came thick and fast.
"What a shame!" burst forth Jerry. "Don't cry, dear. We'll straighten
things out for you. I'll go to Mary my own self and give her Mignon's
history in a few well chosen words." She patted the shoulder of the
weeping girl.
"You might know that Mignon would bring trouble, hateful girl," was
Susan's indignant cry. "Never mind, we'll fix her."
"I'll do all I can to help you, Marjorie," soothed Irma, who was known
throughout the school as a peace-maker.
With a long, quivering sigh Marjorie turned slowly and faced her
friends.
"You are very sweet to me, every one of you," she said gratefully, "but,
girls, you mustn't say a word. I promised Connie, and I'll keep my word
until she releases me from that promise. I'm going over to see her
to-night to ask her to do that very thing. She'll say 'yes,' I know.
Then I can tell Mary and it will be all right. I'm sorry I made such a
baby of myself, but Mary and I have been chums for years--and----" Her
voice broke again.
Jerry wound her plump arms about the girl she adored. "You poor kid,"
she comforted slangily. "If you must cry, cry on my shoulder. It's nice
and fat and not half so hard as that old locker."
"You are a ridiculous Jerry," Marjorie laughed through her tears.
"There, I feel better now. I'm not going to cry another tear. Are my
eyes very red? I don't care to have the public gape at my grief. Come
on, children. It must be long after twelve. I suppose Mary is home by
this time. Naturally she wouldn't wait for me," she added wistfully.
As a matter of fact, Mary had waited. Once she had removed her wraps to
Mignon's locker she had been seized with a sharp attack of conscience.
She felt a trifle ashamed of herself and decided that she would ask her
chum to forgive her and allow her to put her wraps in Marjorie's locker
again. At the close of the session she made a hasty excuse to Mignon,
seized her belongings and hurrying out of the building, took up her
stand across the street. When at twenty minutes past twelve Marjorie did
not appear, her good resolutions took wing, and sulkily setting her face
toward home, Mary left the school and the chance for reconciliation
behind, and angrily went her way alone, thus widening the gap that
already yawned between herself and Marjorie.
It was twenty minutes to one when the latter ran up the steps of her
home in an almost cheerful frame of mind. The hall door yielded to her
touch and she rushed into the hall, her clear call of "Mary!" re-echoing
through the quiet house.
"I'll be down in a minute," answered a cold voice from the head of the
stairs.
"I'll be up in a second," laughed Marjorie, making a dive for the
stairs. The next instant she had caught the immovable little figure at
the landing in an impulsive embrace. "Poor old Lieutenant, I'm so
sorry," was her contrite cry. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.
Listen, dear. I'm going over to see Connie this afternoon after school
and ask her to let me tell you everything you wished to know about last
year. Then you will understand why----"
Mary freed herself from the clinging arms with a jerk. "If you say a
word to Constance Stevens, I'll never forgive you!" she cried
passionately. "I won't be made ridiculous. Do you understand me? You
could tell me without asking her, if you cared to. I'd never say a word
and she'd never know the difference."
"But, Mary, I promised her----" Marjorie stopped in confusion. She had
not meant to mention her promise to Constance. She had spoken before she
thought.
"So _that's_ the reason, is it?" choked Mary, her cheeks flaming with
the humiliating knowledge. "Thank you, I don't care to hear your old
secrets. You may keep them, for all I care!" She whirled and started
toward her room.
Marjorie caught her arm. "I haven't any secrets that I wish to keep from
you, Mary," she said with quiet dignity. "Last night at the dance
Constance asked me to promise I wouldn't say anything to you about the
trouble she had with Mignon La Salle during our freshman year. We were
upstairs in her room. I was mending my flounce. It got torn when we were
dancing. I had intended asking her permission then to tell you, and when
she spoke of it first I hardly knew what to do. I didn't like to let her
think that you were curious and----"
"How dare you call me curious!" Mary stamped her foot in a sudden fury
of temper. "I'm not. I wouldn't listen to your miserable secret if you
begged me to. Now I truly believe what Miss La Salle told me. You and
your friend Constance ought to be ashamed of the way you treated that
poor girl last year. I'm sorry I ever came to your house to live. I'd
write to Father to come and take me away, but Mother would have to know.
She sha'n't be worried, no matter what I have to stand. You needn't be
afraid, I'll not make a fuss, either, so that General and Captain will
know. I'll try to pretend before them that we're just the same chums as
ever, and you'd better pretend it, too. But we won't be. From to-day on
I'll go _my_ way and choose _my_ friends and you can do the same."
"Mary Raymond, listen to me." Marjorie's hands found the shoulders of
her angry chum. The brown eyes held the blue ones in a long, steadfast
gaze. "Mignon La Salle is only trying to make trouble. If you knew her
as well as I know her, you wouldn't pay any attention to her. We've
been best friends and comrades since we were little tots, Mary, and I
think you ought to trust me. No one can ever be so dear to me as you
are."
"Except Constance Stevens," put in Mary sarcastically, twisting from
Marjorie's hold. "Why, that very first day when you came to the train to
meet me I could see you liked her best. You can imagine how I felt when
even your friends spoke of it. If you really cared about me, you would
have written to me of every single thing that happened last year. You
promised you would. You are very anxious to keep a promise to Constance,
but you didn't care whether you kept one to me. As for what you say of
Miss La Salle, I don't believe you. I'd far rather trust her than your
dear Miss Stevens!"
"What has happened to my brigade?" called Mrs. Dean from the foot of the
stairs. "It is five minutes to one, girls. Come to luncheon at once."
"We are coming, Captain," answered Marjorie in as steady a tone as she
could command. Then she said sorrowfully to her companion, "Mary, I feel
just the same toward you as always, only I am terribly hurt. I wish your
way to be my way and your friends mine. If you are sure that you would
like Mignon for a friend, then I am going to try to like her for your
sake. But we mustn't quarrel or--not--not speak--or--let General and
Captain know--that----" Marjorie's words died in a half-sob.
"It doesn't make any difference to me whether you like Miss La Salle or
not," retorted Mary, ignoring Marjorie's distress, "but if you say a
single word to either General or Captain about us, I'll never speak to
you again." With this threat the incensed lieutenant ran heartlessly
down the stairs, leaving her sadly wounded comrade to follow when she
would.
Luncheon was a dismal failure as far as Marjorie was concerned. She
tried to talk and laugh in her usual cheery manner, but she was unused
to dissembling, and it hurt her to play a part before her Captain, of
all persons. Mary, however, found a certain wicked satisfaction in the
situation she had brought about. Now that she had spoken her mind she
would go on in the way she had chosen. Marjorie would be very sorry.
There would come a time when she would be only too glad to plead for the
friendship she had cast aside. But it would be too late.
The moment the two girls left the house for the afternoon session of
school, a blank silence fell upon them. It was broken only by a cool
"Good-bye" from Mary as they separated in the locker room. But during
that silent walk Marjorie had been thinking busily. Hers was a nature
that no amount of disagreeable shocks could dismay for long. No sooner
did a pet ideal totter than she steadied it with patient, tender hands.
True always to the highest, she was laying a foundation that would
weather the stress of years. Now she dwelt not so much upon her own
hurts, but rather on how she should bind up the wounds of her comrades.
What had been obscure was now plain. Mary was jealous of her friendship
with Constance. She had completely misunderstood. If only she, Marjorie,
had known in the beginning! And then there was Mignon. If she had stayed
away from Sanford, all might have been well in time. Mary was determined
to be friends with her. Marjorie knew her friend too well not to believe
that Mary would now cultivate the French girl from sheer obstinacy.
There was just one thing to do. She had said to Mary that she would try
to like Mignon for her sake. She stood ready to keep her promise.
Perhaps, far under her mischief-making exterior, Mignon's better self
lay dormant, waiting for some chance, kindly word or act to awaken it
into life. What was it her General had said about the worst person
having some good in his nature that sooner or later was sure to manifest
itself? How glorious it would be to help Mignon find that better self!
But she could not accomplish much alone. She needed the support of the
girls of her own particular little circle. She was fairly sure they
would help her. But how had they better begin? Suddenly Marjorie's sober
face broke into a radiant smile. She gave a chuckle born of sheer
good-will. "I know the very way," she murmured, half aloud. "If only the
girls will see it, too. But they _must_! It's a splendid plan, and if it
doesn't work it won't be from lack of trying on my part."