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[Illustration: MARJORIE ENTERED HER MOTHER'S ROOM AND DROPPED
DISPIRITEDLY AT HER FEET.]
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MARJORIE DEAN
High School Junior
By PAULINE LESTER
AUTHOR OF
"Marjorie Dean, High School Freshman"
"Marjorie Dean, High School Sophomore"
"Marjorie Dean, High School Senior"
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers--New York
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Copyright, 1917
By A. L. Burt Company
MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL JUNIOR
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MARJORIE DEAN,
HIGH SCHOOL JUNIOR
CHAPTER I--MARJORIE DECLARES HERSELF
"Only to think, next week, at this time, I'll be saying good-bye to you,
Mary Raymond." Marjorie Dean's brown eyes rested very wistfully on the
sunny-haired girl beside her in the big porch swing.
"You know now, just how dreadfully I felt two years ago when I had to
keep thinking about saying good-bye to you," returned Mary in the same
wistful intonation. "It was terrible. And after you had gone! Well--it
was a good deal worse. Oh, Marjorie, I wish I could live this last year
over again. If only----"
Marjorie laid light fingers on Mary's lips. "You mustn't speak of some
things, Lieutenant," she said quickly. "If you do I won't listen. Forget
everything except the wonderful summer we've had together."
Mary caught the soft little hand in both hers. "It _has_ been
wonderful," she agreed rather unsteadily. "I'll have the memory of it to
treasure when I'm away off in Colorado. I can't believe that I am really
going so far away from you. I hope I'll like the West. Next summer you
must come out there and visit me, Marjorie. By that time I'll be a
little bit at home in such a strange, new country."
"I'd love to do that," responded Marjorie with an eagerness that merged
almost immediately again into regretful reflection.
A sad little silence fell upon the two in the porch swing. Each young
heart was heavy with dread of the coming separation. This was the second
time in two years that the call to say farewell had sounded for Marjorie
Dean and Mary Raymond.
Those who have followed Marjorie Dean through her freshman and sophomore
years at high school are already familiar with the details of Mary's and
Marjorie's first separation. In "Marjorie Dean, High School Freshman,"
was recorded the story of the way in which Marjorie had come to leave
her chum at the beginning of their first year in Franklin High School,
in the city of B----, to take up her residence in the far-off town of
Sanford, there to become a freshman at Sanford High. In her new home she
had made many friends, chief among them Constance Stevens, to whom she
had been greatly drawn by reason of a strong resemblance between
Constance and Mary. In an earnest endeavor to bring sunshine to the
former's poverty-stricken lot she had thereby involved herself in a
series of school-girl difficulties, which followed her throughout the
year. True to herself, Marjorie met them bravely and conquered them, one
by one, proving herself a staunch follower of the high code of honor she
had adopted for her own.
With the advent of Mary Raymond into her home for a year's stay,
Marjorie was confronted by a new and painful problem. "Marjorie Dean,
High School Sophomore," found Marjorie enmeshed in the tangled web which
Mary's jealousy of Constance Stevens wove about the three girls. Led
into bitter doubt of Marjorie by Mignon La Salle, a mischief-making
French girl who had made Marjorie's freshman days miserable, Mary
Raymond had been guilty of a disloyalty, which had come near to
estranging the two girls forever. It was not until their sophomore year
was almost over that an awakening had come to Mary, and with it an
earnest repentance, which led to equity and peace.
It was to this which Mary had been about to refer mournfully when
Marjorie's gentle hand had sealed her repentant utterance. All that
summer the two girls had been earnestly engaged in trying to make up for
those lost days. Constance and Mary were now on the most friendly terms.
The three had spent an ideal month together at the seashore, with no
hateful shadow to darken the pleasure of that delightful outing. Later
Constance had left them to spend the remainder of her vacation with her
family in the mountains. The Deans had lingered in their seaside cottage
until the last of August. Now September had arrived, her hazy hints of
coming Autumn reminding the world at large that their summer playtime
was over.
To Mary Raymond it was a pertinent reminder that her days under the
Deans' hospitable canopy were numbered. In fact, only seven of them
remained. On the next Friday morning she would say her last farewells to
speed away to Denver, Colorado, where, on her invalid mother's account,
the Raymonds were to make their home. So it is scarcely to be wondered
at that Marjorie and Mary were decidedly melancholy, as they sat hand in
hand, bravely trying to meet the trial which lay before them.
"I wonder if Jerry will come home to-day." Marjorie rose from the swing
with an abruptness that set it to swaying gently. The weight of parting
had grown heavier during that brief silence and she was very near to
tears.
"I don't know. Her letter said Thursday or Friday, didn't it?" Mary's
voice shook slightly. She, too, was on the verge of a breakdown.
"Yes." Marjorie's back was toward Mary as she answered. She walked to
the end of the spacious veranda and gazed down the pebbled drive. Just
then she felt as though the sight of Geraldine Macy's round,
good-humored face would be most welcome. Slowly returning to where Mary
still sat, she said: "As this is Friday, Jerry will surely----"
"Marjorie!" called a clear voice from within the house. "The telephone
is ringing."
"Coming, Captain!" Marjorie quickened to sudden action. "I hope it's
Jerry," she flung over her shoulder as she ran to the open door. "Come
on, Mary."
Mary needed no second invitation. By the time Marjorie had reached the
telephone, she was only a step behind her chum.
"Hello! Yes, this is Marjorie. Oh, Jerry!" Marjorie gave a little squeal
of delight. "We were just talking of you. We wondered if you'd be home
to-day. Won't you come over now? You will? Well, then, hurry as fast as
ever you can. We're crazy to see you. Mary wants to talk to you. Just
say 'hello' to her and hang up the receiver." Marjorie cast a playful
glance at the girl beside her. "You can talk to her when you get here."
Marjorie held the receiver toward Mary, who greeted Jerry in brief but
affectionate fashion and obediently hung up. "Always do as your superior
officer tells you," she commented with a smile.
"That's pure sarcasm," retorted Marjorie gaily. "The question is, am I
your superior officer or are you mine? This business of both being
lieutenants has its drawbacks. We can never know just who's who."
"I ought to be second lieutenant and you first," demurred Mary soberly.
"I didn't deserve to become a first with you last June after----"
"Mary!" Marjorie cried out in distressed concern. Her brown eyes were
filled with tender reproach. "Aren't you ever going to forget?"
"I can't." Mary turned her face half away, then the flood of sadness she
had been fighting back all afternoon overtook her. Stumbling to the
stairs she sat down on the lowest step, her face hidden in her hands,
her shoulders shaking.
"Poor, dear Lieutenant." Her own eyes overflowing, Marjorie dropped down
beside Mary and wound her arms about the dejected figure.
"This is a nice reception! I see I shall have to welcome myself. Why,
how are you, Geraldine? Boo, hoo! It's a wonder you wouldn't ring. You
never did have any manners. I don't see why you called, anyway. Boo,
hoo!"
The first sound of a loud, cheerful voice brought the weepers to their
feet. A loud, anguished "Boo, hoo!" sent them into half tearful giggles.
"That's more like it," approved the stout girl in the doorway, her round
face alive with kindly solicitude. "If I had sensitive feelings I might
think you were crying because you'd invited me to call. But I haven't.
Hal says I am the most unfeeling person he knows. He only says that when
his little sister can't see things the way he does."
Jerry rattled off these pleasantries while in the midst of a rapturous
embrace, bestowed upon her plump person by two now broadly-smiling
mourners.
"It's splendid to see you again, Jerry," caroled Marjorie, hugging her
friend with bearish enthusiasm. Mary echoed Marjorie's fervent greeting.
"The mere sight of me is always inspiring," grinned Jerry, winding an
arm about each friend. "I hope you have both noticed by this time that I
am a great deal thinner than I was last June. I've lost two pounds.
Isn't that some lose?"
"Perfectly remarkable," agreed Marjorie mischievously. "Come on out on
the veranda, Jerry. We have such a lot to talk about."
Four determined, affectionate arms propelled Jerry to the wide,
vine-decked porch, established her in the big porch swing, and climbed
in beside her.
"Now, tell me, children, why these weeps?" Jerry demanded practically,
still retaining her loving hold of her two friends.
"They've been on the way all day," confessed Marjorie. "We've both tried
not to cry, but--somehow----" Her voice faltered. "You see, Jerry, this is
Mary's and my last week together. Mary's going away off to Colorado next
week."
"You don't mean it?" Jerry sat up very straight, looking wide-eyed
concern. "You never said a thing about it in your letter. I mean
letters. I believe you did write me two." Jerry registered comical
accusation.
"Don't remind me of my sins of omission," Marjorie laughed, flushing a
trifle. "I always mean to write, but somehow I never do. We didn't know
until the week before we came from the seashore that Mary would have to
go so soon. We thought it wouldn't be until November." Again her tones
quavered suspiciously.
"I see." Jerry frowned to hide her own inclination to mourn. During the
brief time they were thrown together, after the reunion of Marjorie and
Mary, she had learned to know and love the real Mary Raymond. "I'm more
sorry than I can say. I thought we'd all be together for our junior year
at Sanford High."
"Of course, I am anxious to be with mother and father," put in Mary
loyally, "but I hate to leave Sanford. There are lots of things I meant
to do this year that I didn't do last year."
"But you can't be in two places at once," was Jerry's blunt consolation.
"Never mind, Mary, you can come back to visit us and we'll write you
lots of letters. Marjorie is such a splendid correspondent." Her
accompanying jolly chuckle robbed this last pertinent fling of offence.
"We'll write you all the news. That reminds me, I've some for you girls.
You'll never guess who stayed at the same hotel with us this summer. I
didn't write about it, because I wanted to have it to tell when I came
home."
Mary cast a sidelong glance at the stout girl. There had been a faint
touch of disgust in Jerry's intonation. "Was it--Mignon?" she asked, half
hesitant.
"Right you are. How did you guess it?"
"Oh, I just wondered," was Mary's brief response. A tide of red had
risen to her white skin, called there by distressing memories.
"Yes, it was our dear Mignon," continued Jerry briskly. "And she has a
friend, Rowena Farnham, who likewise stayed at our hotel. Believe me,
they were a well-matched pair. You see the La Salles usually go to
Severn Beach every summer, but they always stay at Cliff House. We
always go to the Sea Gull. That's the whole length of the beach from
their hotel. Imagine how pleased I was to see Mignon come parading down
to dinner one evening, after we'd been there about two weeks. I was so
disgusted that I wanted my father to pack up and move us over to Cliff
House. But he wouldn't, the hard-hearted person.
"That is only part of my tale. The worst now comes trailing along. It's
about this Rowena Farnham. It seems that the Farnhams moved to Sanford
last June just after school closed and----"
"Is this Rowena Farnham a very tall, pretty girl with perfectly gorgeous
auburn hair and big black eyes?" broke in Mary abruptly.
"Yes. Where did you ever see her?" demanded Jerry. "Where was I that I
didn't?"
"Oh, I saw her one day in the post-office with Mignon. It was after you
had gone away. I thought she must be a guest at the La Salles'."
"You thought wrong. She lives in that big house with the immense grounds
just the other side of the La Salles' home. It's the one with that
terribly high, ornamental iron fence. I always used to call it the Jail.
It made me think of one. But that's not my news, either. This new girl
is going to be a sophomore at Sanford High. I'm sorry for poor old
Sanford High."
"Why?" A curious note of alarm sprang into Marjorie's question. After
two stormy years at high school, she longed for uneventful peace.
Jerry's emphatic grumble came like a far-off roll of thunder,
prophesying storm.
"Why?" Jerry warmed to her subject. "Because she is a terror. I can see
it in her eye. Just now she and Mignon are as chummy as can be. If they
stay chummy, look out for trouble. If they don't, look out for more
trouble."
"Perhaps you may find this new girl quite different," suggested Mary
hopefully. "It's not fair to judge her by Mignon. Very likely she hasn't
any idea that--that----" She was thinking of how completely she had once
fallen under Mignon's spell.
"That Mignon is Mignon, you mean," interrupted Jerry. "She ought to know
her after being with her all summer. I'll bet she does. That's just why
I think she's a trouble-maker. They always hang together, you know."
Marjorie slipped from the swing and faced her friends with the air of
one who has suddenly arrived at a definite conclusion. For a moment she
stood regarding Jerry in silence, hands clasped behind her back.
"There's just one thing about it, Jerry," she began firmly, "and that
is: I _will not_ have my junior year spoiled by Mignon La Salle or her
friends. Last year we tried to help Mignon and our plan didn't work. I
thought once that she had a better self, but now it would take a good
deal to make me believe it. She caused me a great deal of unnecessary
unhappiness and she almost made Constance lose her part in the operetta.
And little Charlie! I can't forgive her for the way she treated that
baby. This year I am going to go on with my school just as though I had
never known her. I hope I won't have to play on the same basket ball
team with her or against any team that she plays on. I've had enough of
Mignon La Salle. I'm going to steer clear of her."