THE WARNING
The afternoon session of school passed uneventfully for Marjorie. She
had returned too late from luncheon to hold more than a few words of
conversation with the Picture Girl. In spite of the watchful espionage
of Miss Merton, whose eyes seemed riveted to her side of the room,
Muriel managed to convey to Marjorie the news that the girls were dying
to meet her and were so sorry they had missed her at noon.
"We waited for you more than ten minutes," Muriel whispered guardedly.
"Mignon saw you stop at Professor Fontaine's desk. We knew what that
meant. It always takes him forever to explain anything. Do you remember
a black-haired, black-eyed girl in the French class this morning? She
wore the sweetest brown crêpe-de-chine dress. Well, that's Mignon La
Salle. Her father is the richest man in Sanford. Mignon could go away to
school if she liked, but she doesn't care about it. Tell you more
later."
Muriel faced front with a sudden jerk that could mean but one thing.
Marjorie cast a fleeting glance at Miss Merton. The teacher was frowning
angrily, as though about to deliver a rebuke. Luckily for the two girls,
the first recitation bell rang and they stood not upon the order of
their going, but went with alacrity. Once outside the study-hall door
they were safe.
"I don't know what ails Miss Merton," complained Muriel. "She has never
said a word to me before. That's twice to-day she has shown her claws."
"She doesn't like me," said Marjorie, calmly, "and I don't like her. I
think she is the rudest teacher I ever knew. It was I, not you that she
meant that scolding for this morning."
"Nonsense!" scoffed Muriel. "She likes you as well as she likes the rest
of us. I don't believe she is awfully, terribly, fearfully fond of
girls. When she was young she must have been one of those stiff, prim
goody-goodies; the distressingly snippy sort that made all her friends
so tired." Muriel laughed softly.
Marjorie smiled at Muriel's unflattering description of Miss Merton's
youth, then her face sobered. In her heart she knew that Miss Merton
disliked her, and the knowledge was not pleasant. She made an earnest
resolve to overcome the teacher's prejudice. She would make Miss Merton
like her.
Muriel went with her as far as the door of the history room, which was
in charge of Miss Atkins, a stout, middle-aged woman, who beamed amiably
upon Marjorie, entered her name in the class register, motioned her to a
front seat and promptly appeared to forget her existence. But though
Miss Atkins exhibited small personal interest in her new pupil, such was
not the case with regard to the subject which she taught. The lesson
dealt with the coming of the Virginia colonists, their settlement in
Jamestown and the final burning of the town. Miss Atkins' vivid
description of the colonists' determined struggles to gain a foothold in
the New World was well worth listening to. The reading of extracts from
special reference books pertaining to that gallant expedition into the
treacherous forests of an unknown, untried country made the lesson seem
doubly interesting. When the recitation was over Marjorie went back to
the study hall congratulating herself on the fact that she had not
dropped history, and reflecting that no one would ever have suspected
Miss Atkins of being so fascinating.
As she groped in her desk for her textbook on physiology, she looked
about her for some sign of Constance Stevens. She recollected that she
had not seen her in her seat when the afternoon session began. The
moment her recitation in physiology was over she hastened to the locker
room. No, her new friend's hat was not there. She had not returned to
school after luncheon. Marjorie reached for her own hat, vaguely
wondering what had happened to keep Constance away from school.
She stood meditatively poking her hatpins in and out of her hat, when
the sound of footsteps on the stairs came to her ears. School was over
for the day. She put on her hat in a hurry, took a swift peep at herself
as she passed the one large mirror that hung at the end of the
freshmen's lockers, and ran up the stairs. She would not disappoint
Muriel's friends again.
This time she was first on the scene, standing on the identical spot
where she had stood the day Constance rushed weeping past her. Why
didn't her class come out? Surely she had heard their footsteps on the
stairs. But it was fully five minutes before the stream of girls began
to issue from the big doors. Then Muriel appeared, surrounded by her
friends, and in another instant the girl with the dimples, the
fair-haired girl, the stout girl and the Evil Genius were, with varying
degrees of friendliness, telling Marjorie Dean that they were glad to
meet her.
Susan Atwell said so frankly with a delightful show of dimples. Irma
Linton looked the acme of gentle friendliness. Geraldine Macy's face
wore an expression of open admiration. Mignon La Salle's greeting,
however, was distinctly reserved. To be sure, she smiled; but Muriel,
who had been furtively watching her, knew that the French girl was not
pleased with the idea of admitting another girl to their fellowship.
"The rest of the girls like her," thought Muriel. "Mignon will find
she'll have to give in this time." Purposely, to make sure she was
right, she said boldly: "Miss Dean, will you go to the basketball tryout
with us on Friday afternoon?"
"Yes, do," urged Geraldine Macy, eagerly.
"We'd love to have you," came from Susan Atwell. "We understand that you
are a star player."
"Of course you must," smiled Irma Linton.
The French girl alone hesitated. Her eyes roved speculatively from one
face to another, then she said suavely, "Come by all means, Miss Dean.
It will be quite interesting."
"Thank you. I shall be pleased to go with you." Marjorie ignored
Mignon's slight hesitation, although she had noted it. "I wonder if you
are all as fond of basketball as I," she went on quickly. "It's a
splendid game, isn't it?"
Her new acquaintances answered with emphasis that it was certainly a
great game, and, the ice now broken, they began to ply their new
acquaintance with questions. How did she like Sanford? Did it seem
strange to her after a big city high school? What subjects had she
selected? Had she met any other girls besides themselves?
Marjorie answered them readily enough. She was glad to be one of a
crowd of girls again.
"Have you met any other girls?" asked Geraldine Macy, abruptly.
"I met a Miss Seymour before I had even gone as far as Miss Archer's
office. She is a delightful girl, isn't she?"
No one of the five girls made answer. The little freshman regarded them
perplexedly.
"Mm!" ejaculated Muriel Harding. "You wouldn't think her quite so nice
if you knew as much about her as we do. Wait until you see her play
basketball. She plays center on the sophomore team, and she makes some
very peculiar plays. She's always creating trouble, too. She and some of
her sophomore friends seem to have a particular grudge against Mignon.
They are forever criticising her playing. They have even gone so far as
to say that we don't play fairly; that we are tricky. The idea!" Muriel
looked highly offended at the mere idea of any such thing.
Marjorie listened without comment. Muriel's ready tirade against the
pleasant-faced sophomore who had willingly offered her services that
morning made her feel decidedly uncomfortable. Then Miss Seymour's
straightforward speech to Miss Archer came back to her. The sophomore
had been generous to her enemies, if they were enemies, in that she had
refused to mention any names. Marjorie wondered if Muriel or Mignon
would be equally generous in the same circumstances. She resolved to say
nothing of what she had been privileged to hear. It was not hers to
tell.
Suddenly she divined, rather than saw, Mignon's elfish eyes fixed upon
her. "You met another girl, at noon, did you not, Miss Dean?" asked the
French girl, with an almost sarcastic inflection.
"Yes; Miss Stevens," was the composed answer. "We share the same locker.
She is a nice girl, too, and I like her very much, so, please, don't say
anything against her," she ended, in half-smiling warning.
Mignon La Salle's face grew dark. She recognized the challenging note in
the new girl's tone. Muriel, too, frowned. Susan Atwell sidled up to
Mignon, Irma Linton looked distressed and Geraldine Macy calmly curious
as to what would come next. It came in the way of a small tempest, for
the French girl lost her temper over Marjorie's retort.
She stamped her foot in childish rage, saying vehemently: "She is a
nobody, that Stevens person, and her family are vagabonds. You will make
a great mistake if you choose her for your friend." Then, her rage
receding as suddenly as it had come, she shrugged her shoulders
deprecatingly. "Pardonnez moi." She bowed to Marjorie. "I spoke too
strongly. It is not for me to choose Miss Dean's friends." Slipping her
arm through Muriel's, she drew her ahead of the others. Susan Atwell
took a hurried step forward and caught her other arm, leaving Marjorie
to walk between Irma and Geraldine.
"Don't mind her," said Jerry, in a low voice. "She has it in for that
Miss Stevens. She, the Stevens girl, did something, no one knows what,
to make Mignon angry with her. Mignon says Miss Stevens talked about her
and Muriel and Susan believed it, but Irma and I are not so silly."
Two blocks further on Marjorie bade good-bye to the five girls. She said
it without enthusiasm. Their carping, quarrelsome attitude had taken all
the pleasure from knowing them. She made mental exception in favor of
Irma and Jerry. The gentleness of the one and the sturdy, outspoken
manner of the other had impressed her favorably. But she was sorely
disappointed in Muriel.
Should she tell her mother of the disagreeable ending of her first day?
She decided not to do so. She would carry nothing save pleasant tales to
her captain to-day. And so that night, when she entered the living-room
and found her mother, in a becoming negligee, occupying the wide leather
couch by the window, she saluted, like a dutiful soldier, and included
in her report only the pleasant happenings of her first,
never-to-be-forgotten day in Sanford High School.