A STEP IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION
The days following the final break in the friendship between the two
sophomores were dark indeed for Marjorie. The tale of Mignon's stormy
outbreak at her party had been retailed far and wide. It furnished
material for much speculative gossip among the students of Sanford High
School, and, as is always the case, grew out of proportion to truth with
each subsequent recital. Although the five girls who had banded
themselves together in the reform that met with such signal failure
refused to commit themselves, nevertheless the purpose of their compact,
revealed by Mignon's sarcastic tirade at the party, was no longer a
secret. Regarding the conscientiousness of their motives, opinions were
divided. Certain girls who had a wholesome respect for wealth,
personified in Mignon, murmured among themselves that it was a shame she
had been so badly treated, while under the Deans' roof. A few still
bolder spirits went so far as to criticize Mrs. Dean for interfering in
a school-girl's quarrel. They asserted that Mary Raymond had behaved
wisely in openly defending her. Marjorie Dean was a great baby to allow
her mother to run her affairs. There was no one quite so tiresome as a
goody-goody.
On the other hand, Marjorie possessed many firm friends who defended
her, to the last word. For the time being discussion ran rife, for youth
loves to take up arms in any cause that promises excitement, without
stopping to consider dispassionately both sides of a story.
After the party Mignon had lost no time in imparting to those who would
listen to her that the Deans had treated their guest with the utmost
cruelty and it was for her invalid mother's sake alone that Mary had
resigned herself to remain under their roof and go on with her school.
Her distortion of the truth grew with each recital and, as the autumn
days came and went, she found she had succeeded in dividing the
sophomore class far more effectually than she had divided it the
preceding year, when in its freshman infancy.
At the Hallowe'en dance which the Weston boys always gave to their fair
Sanford schoolmates, dissension had reigned and broken forth in so many
petty jealousies that the boyish hosts had been filled with gloomy
disgust "at the way some of those girls acted," and vowed among
themselves never to give another party. There were exceptions, of
course, they had moodily agreed. Marjorie Dean and _her_ crowd were "all
right" girls and "nothing was too good for them." As for some others,
well--"they'd wait a long time before the fellows broke their necks to
show 'em another good time."
After a three weeks' absence Constance Stevens had returned to Sanford
and school. To her Marjorie confided her sorrows. So distressed was the
latter at the part she had unwittingly played in the jangle that she
wrote Mary Raymond an earnest little note, which was read and
contemptuously consigned to the waste-basket as unworthy of answer. Long
were the talks Constance and Marjorie had on the sore subject of Mary's
unreasonable stand, and many were the plans proposed by which they might
soften her stony little heart, but none of them were carried out. They
were voiced, only to be laid aside as futile.
To Marjorie it was all a dreadful dream from which she forlornly hoped
she might at any moment awaken. Three times a day she endured the
torture of sitting opposite Mary at meals, of hearing her talk with her
mother and father exactly as though she were not present. Mr. Dean had
returned from his Western trip. His wife had immediately advised him of
the painful situation, and, after due deliberation, he had decided that
the only one who could alter it was Mary herself. "Let her alone," he
counseled. "She has her father's disposition. You cannot drive her. You
were right in leaving her to work out her own salvation. It is hard on
Marjorie, poor child, but sooner or later Mary will wake up. When she
does she will be a very humble young woman. I wouldn't have her father
and mother know this for a good deal, and neither would she. You can
rest assured of that. Still you had better keep an eye on her. I don't
like her friendship with this La Salle girl. Mark me, some day she will
turn on Mary, and then see what happens! I'll have a talk with my
sore-hearted little Lieutenant and cheer her up, if I can."
Mr. Dean kept his word, privately inviting his sober-eyed daughter to
meet him at his office after school and go for a long ride with him in
the crisp autumn air. Once they had left Sanford behind them, Marjorie,
who understood the purpose of the little expedition, opened her
sorrowing heart to her General. Sure of his sympathy, she spoke her
inmost thoughts, while he listened, commented, asked questions and
comforted, then repeated his prediction of a happy ending with a
positiveness that aroused in her new hope of better days yet to come.
Marjorie never forgot that ride. They tarried for dinner at a wayside
inn, justly famous for its cheer, and drove home happily under the
November stars. As she studied her lessons that night she experienced a
rush of buoyant good fellowship toward the world in general which for
many days had not been hers. Yes, she was certain now that the shadow
would be lifted. Sooner or later she and Mary would step, hand-in-hand,
into the clear sunlight of perfect understanding. She prayed that it
might dawn for her soon. As is usually the case with persons innocent of
blame, she took herself sharply to task for whatever part of the snarl
she had helped to make. She did not know that the stubborn soul of her
friend could be lifted to nobler things only by suffering; that Mary's
moment of awakening was still far distant.
But while Marjorie prayed wistfully for reconciliation, Mary Raymond sat
in the next room, her straight brows puckered in a frown over a sheet of
paper she held in her hand. On it was written:
"DEAR MARY:
"Be sure to come to the practice game to-morrow. I think you
will find it interesting. If it is anything like the last one,
several persons are going to be surprised when it is over. I
won't see you after school to-day, as I am not coming back to
the afternoon session.
"MIGNON."
Mary stared at the paper with slightly troubled eyes. Estranged from
Marjorie, she and Mignon had become boon companions. Since that eventful
morning when she had chosen her own course, she had discovered a number
of things about the French girl not wholly to her liking. First of all
she had expected that her latest sturdy defiance of the Deans would
elicit the highest approbation on the part of Mignon. Greatly to her
disappointment, her new friend, in whose behalf she had renounced so
much, had received her bold announcement, "I'm done with Marjorie Dean
forever," quite as a matter of course. She had merely shrugged her
expressive shoulders and remarked, "I am glad you've come to your
senses," without even inquiring into the details. Ignoring Mary's
wrongs, which had now become an old story to her and therefore devoid of
interest, she had launched forth into a lengthy discussion of her own
plans, a subject of which she was never tired of talking. After that it
did not take long for the foolish little lieutenant, who had so
unfeelingly deserted her regiment, to see that Mignon was entirely
self-centered. Other revelations soon followed. Mignon was agreeable as
long as she could have her own way. She would not brook contradiction,
and she snapped her fingers at advice. She was a law unto herself, and
to be her chum meant to follow blindly and unquestioningly wherever she
chose to lead. Mary tried to bring herself to believe that she had made
a wise choice. It was an honor to be best friends with the richest girl
in Sanford High School. She owned an electric runabout and wore
expensive clothes. At home she was the moving power about which the
houseful of servants meekly revolved. All this was very gratifying, to
be sure, but deep in her heart Mary knew that she would rather spend one
blessed hour of the old, carefree companionship with Marjorie than a
year with this strange, elfish girl with whom she had cast her lot. But
it was too late to retreat. She had burned her bridges behind her. She
must abide by that which she had chosen.
To give her due credit, she still believed that Mignon had been
misjudged. She invested the French girl with a sense of honor which she
had never possessed, and to this Mary pinned her faith. Perhaps if she
had not been still sullenly incensed against Constance Stevens, the
scales might have fallen from her eyes. But her resentment against the
latter was exceeded only by Mignon's dislike for the gentle girl. Thus
the common bond of hatred held them together. She had only to mention
Constance's name and Mignon would rise to the bait with torrential
anger. This in itself was an unfailing solace to Mary.
To-night, however, her conscience troubled her. For the past three weeks
basket ball had been the all-important topic of the hour with the
students of Sanford High School. It was the usual custom for the
instructor in gymnastics to hold basket ball try-outs among the aspiring
players of the various classes. Assisted by several seniors, she culled
the most skilful players to make the respective teams. But this year a
new departure had been declared. Miss Randall was no longer instructor.
She had resigned her position the previous June and passed on to other
fields. Her successor, Miss Davis, had ideas of her own on the subject
of basket ball and no sooner had she set foot in the gymnasium than she
proceeded to put them into effect. Instead of picking one team from the
freshman and sophomore classes, she selected two from each class. Then
she organized a series of practice games to determine which of the two
teams should represent their respective classes in the field of glory.
Marjorie, Susan Atwell, Muriel Harding, a tall girl named Esther Lind,
and Harriet Delaney made one of the two teams. Mignon La Salle,
Elizabeth Meredith, Daisy Griggs, Louise Selden and Anne Easton, the
latter four devoted supporters of Mignon La Salle, composed the other.
There had been some little murmuring on the part of Marjorie's coterie
of followers over the choice. Miss Davis was a close friend of Miss
Merton and it was whispered that she had been posted beforehand in
choosing the second team. Otherwise, how had it happened to be made up
of Mignon's admiring satellites?
Miss Davis had decreed that three practice games between the two
sophomore teams should be played to decide their prowess. The winners
should then be allowed to challenge the freshmen, who were being put
through a similar contest, to play a great deciding game for athletic
honors on the Saturday afternoon following Thanksgiving. She also
undertook to make basket ball plans for the juniors and seniors, but
these august persons declined to become enthusiastic over the movement
and balked so vigorously at the first intimation of interference with
their affairs that Miss Davis retired gracefully from their horizon and
devoted her energy to the younger and more pliable pupils of the school.
Not yet arrived at the dignity of the two upper classes, the sophomores
and freshmen were still too devoted to the game itself to resent being
managed. To find in Miss Davis an ardent devotee of basket ball was a
distinct gain. Miss Archer, although she attended the games played
between the various teams, was not, and had not been, wholly in favor of
the sport since that memorable afternoon of the year before when Mignon
had accused Ellen Seymour, now a junior, of purposely tripping her
during a wild rush for the ball. Privately, Miss Archer considered
basket ball rather a rough sport for girls and they knew that a
repetition of last year's disturbance meant death to basket ball in
Sanford High School.
Two of the three practice games had been played by the sophomore teams.
The squad of which Marjorie was captain had easily won the first. This
had greatly incensed Captain Mignon and her players. A series of locker
and corner confabs had followed. Mary, who did not aspire to basket ball
honors, had been present at these talks. In the beginning the
discussions had merely been devoted to the devising of signals and the
various methods of scoring against their opponents. But gradually a new
and sinister note had crept in. Mignon did not actually counsel her team
to take unfair advantages, but she made many artful suggestions, backed
up by a play of her speaking shoulders that conveyed volumes to her
followers. It began to dawn upon Mary that these "clever tricks," as
Mignon was wont to designate them, were not only flagrant dishonesties
but dangerous means to the end, quite likely to result in physical harm.
Her sense of honor was by no means dead, although companionship with
Mignon had served to blunt it. She had remonstrated rather weakly with
the latter on one occasion, as they walked toward home together after
leaving the other girls, and had been ridiculed for her pains.
She now stared at Mignon's irregular, disjointed writing, which in some
curious way suggested the girl's elfish personality, with unhappy eyes.
Just what did Mignon mean by intimating that several persons were "going
to be surprised" when to-morrow's practice game was over? It sounded
like a threat. No doubt it was. Suppose--some one were to be hurt
through this tricky playing of Mignon's team! Suppose that some one were
to be Marjorie! Mary shuddered. She remembered once reading in a
newspaper an account of a basket-ball game in which a girl had been
tripped by an opponent and had fallen. That girl had hurt her spine and
the physicians had decreed that she would never walk again. Mary put her
hands before her eyes as though to shut out the mental vision of
Marjorie, lying white and moaning on the gymnasium floor, the victim of
an unscrupulous adversary. What could she do? She could not warn
Marjorie to be on her guard. She had now passed out of her former
chum's friendship of her own free will. She could not go privately to
Muriel or Susan or the other members of the team. No, indeed! Yet,
somehow, she must convey a message of warning.
Seized with a sudden impulse to carry out her resolve, she picked up a
pencil and began to scrawl on a bit of paper in a curious, back-handed
fashion, quite different from her neat Spencerian hand. Over and over
she practiced this hand on a loosened sheet from her note-book. At
length she rose and, going to her chiffonier, took from the top drawer a
leather writing case. Tumbling its contents hastily over, she selected a
sheet of pale gray paper. There was a single envelope to match. Long it
had lain among her stationery, the last of a kind she had formerly used.
She was sure Marjorie had never seen it, so if it fell into her hands
she could not trace it to her. Once more she practiced the back-handed
scrawl. Then, with an energy born of the remorse which was to serve as a
continual penance for her folly, she wrote:
"TO THE SOPHOMORE TEAM:
"Be on your guard when you play to-morrow. If you are not very
careful you may be sorry. Beware of 'tricks.'
"ONE WHO KNOWS."
Folding the warning, Mary slipped it into its envelope. But now the
question again confronted her, "To whom shall I send it?" After a
moment's frowning thought she decided upon Harriet Delaney as the
recipient. But dared she trust it to the mail service? Suppose it were
not delivered until afternoon? Then it would be too late. The Delaneys
lived only two blocks further up the street. It was not yet ten o'clock.
Mrs. Dean had gone to a lecture. Marjorie was in her room. If she met
General she would merely state that she was going to post a letter. That
would be entirely true. She would run all the way there and back. Once
she had reached Harriet's house she must take her chance of being
discovered.
Drawing on her long blue coat, Mary crept noiselessly down the stairs.
General was not in sight. The living room was in darkness. Only the hall
lights burned. It took but an instant to softly open the door. Mary sped
down the walk and on her errand of honor like a frightened fawn. Fortune
favored her. No eye marked her cautious ascent of the Delaney's steps.
She breathed a faint sigh of relief as she slipped the envelope into the
letter slot in the middle of the front door. Then she turned and dashed
for home like a pursued criminal.
She had hardly gained the shelter of her room when she heard the front
door open to the accompaniment of cheerful voices. Mr. Dean had
evidently gone forth to bring his wife home from the lecture. Mary threw
herself on the bed, her heart pounding with excitement and the energy of
her brisk run. And though she was conscious only of having done a good
deed for honor's sake, nevertheless she had faced about and taken a long
step in the right direction.