As Jerry had guessed, Constance Stevens' absence from school was due to
the fact that her foster-father had descended upon Gray Gables for a
brief visit. He was delighted to see both Marjorie and Jerry. Constance
insisted that they should remain to dinner, whereupon the tireless
telephone was put into use and the two remained at Gray Gables, there to
spend a most agreeable evening. At about eleven o'clock Hal Macy
appeared to take them home in the Macy's smart limousine. Thus, in the
pleasure of being with her friends, Marjorie quite forgot the
disagreeable incident that had earlier befallen herself and Jerry.
Strange to say, Cæsar's Commentaries, also, faded from recollection, and
it was not until they were driving home that the estimable Roman was
tardily remembered along with previous good intentions. "It's unprepared
for ours," was Jerry's doleful cry, thereby proving that the will to
abolish slang was better than the deed.
Due to placing pleasure before duty, Marjorie felt it incumbent upon her
to make an early entrance into school the next morning for the purpose
of taking a hasty peep at her neglected text books. She was lucky, she
told herself, in that the last hour in the morning would give her an
opportunity to go over her Cæsar lesson. She, therefore, confined her
attention to her English literature, deciding that she could somehow
manage to slide through her French without absolute failure. Civil
government would also have to take its chance for one recitation.
When at fifteen minutes past eleven she came into the study hall from
French class and settled herself to begin the business of Latin, she was
for once glad to lay hold on the fat, green volume devoted to the doings
of the invincible Cæsar. Opening it, a faint cluck of surprise fell from
her lips as she took from it a square, white envelope addressed to
herself. It was unsealed and as she drew forth the folded paper which it
held she wondered mightily how it had come to be there. She was very
sure she had not placed it in the book. Her bewilderment deepened as she
read:
"Miss Dean:
"After what occurred the other day in the principal's office it is
surprising that you were not expelled from Sanford High School. It
proves you to be a special pet of Miss Archer. Such unfairness is
contemptible in a principal. It should be exposed, along with your
dishonesty. Sooner or later even that will be found out and you will
receive your just deserts. It is a long lane that has no turning.
"The Observer."
Marjorie emitted a faint sigh of pure amazement as she finished reading
this sinister prediction of her ultimate downfall. It was a piece of
rank absurdity, evidently penned by someone who had no intimate
knowledge of inside facts. Still it filled her with a curious sense of
horror. She loathed the very idea of an anonymous letter. Once before
since she had first set foot in Sanford High the experience of receiving
one of these mysterious communications had been hers. It had pertained
to basket ball, however. She had easily guessed its origin and it had
troubled her little. This letter was of an entirely different character.
It proved that among the girls with whom she daily met and associated
there was one, at least, who did not wish her well.
As she reread the spiteful message, her thoughts leaped to Rowena
Farnham as the person most open to suspicion. Yet Rowena had made a
direct attack upon her. Again there was Mignon. She was wholly capable
of such a deed. Strangely enough, Marjorie was seized with the belief
that neither girl was responsible for it. She did not know why she
believed this to be true. She simply accepted it as such, and cudgelled
her brain for another more plausible solution of the mystery.
As she studied it the more she became convinced that the writing was the
same as that of the similarly signed letter Miss Archer had received.
The stationery, too, was the same. The words, "The Observer," were the
crowning proof which entirely exonerated Rowena. She had certainly not
written the first note. Therefore, she had not written the second.
Marjorie was in a quandary as to whether or not she should go frankly to
the principal and exhibit the letter. She felt that Miss Archer would
wish to see it, and at once take the matter up. She could hardly charge
Rowena with it, thereby lessening her chances of entering the school.
This second note made no mention of Rowena. Its spitefulness was
directed entirely toward Marjorie herself. As it pertained wholly to
her, she believed that it might be better to keep the affair locked
within her own breast. After all, it might amount to nothing. No doubt,
Rowena had related her own version of the algebra problem to Mignon.
Mignon was noted for her malicious powers of gossip. A garbled account
on her part of the matter might have aroused some one of her few allies
to this cowardly method of attack. Still this explanation would not
cover the writing of the first letter.
Quite at sea regarding its source, Marjorie gave the distasteful missive
an impatient little flip that sent it fluttering off her desk to the
floor. Reaching down she lifted it, holding it away from her as though
it were a noisome weed. She burned to tear it into bits, but an inner
prompting stayed her destroying hands. Replacing it in the envelope, she
tucked it inside her silk blouse, determining to file it away at home in
case she needed it for future reference. She hoped, however, that it
would never be needed. Whoever had slipped it into her Cæsar must have
done so after she had left her desk on the previous afternoon, following
the close of the session. She wished she knew those who had lingered in
the study hall after half-past three. This she was not likely to learn.
Her own intimate friends had all passed out of the study hall at the
ringing of the closing bell. She resolved that she would make casual
inquiries elsewhere in the hope of finding a clue.
During the rest of the week she pursued this course with tactful
assiduousness, but she could discover nothing worth while. What she did
learn, however, was that due to a strenuous appeal to the Board of
Education on the part of Mr. Farnham, his daughter had been allowed, on
strict promise of future good behavior, to try an entirely new set of
examinations. Fortune must have attended her, for on the next Monday she
appeared in the study hall as radiantly triumphant as though she had
received a great honor, rather than a reluctant admission into the
sophomore fold.
"Well, she got there!" hailed Jerry Macy in high disgust, happening to
meet Marjorie in the corridor between classes on the morning of Rowena's
retarded arrival. "My father said they had quite a time about it. She
got into school by just one vote. He wouldn't tell me which way he
voted, but he said he was glad she wasn't his daughter."
"I'm honestly glad for hers and her parents' sake that she was allowed
another trial." Marjorie spoke with sincere earnestness. "She's had a
severe lesson. She may profit by it and get along without any more
trouble."
"Profit by nothing," grumbled Jerry. "She can't change her disposition
any more than a cat can grow feathers or an ostrich whiskers. Row-ena,
Scrapena, Fightena, Quarrelena she is and will be forever and forever.
Let's not talk about her. She makes me--I mean I feel somewhat languid
whenever her name is mentioned." Jerry delivered her polite emendation
with irresistible drollery. "Did you know that there's to be a junior
basket ball try-out next Tuesday after school?"
"No." Marjorie's interest was aroused. "Who told you? It certainly
hasn't been announced."
"Ellen Seymour told me. She's going to help Miss Davis manage the team
this year in Marcia Arnold's place. I imagine she'll do most of the
managing. I guess Miss Davis had enough of basket ball last year. She
told Ellen that it took up too much of her time. She knew, I guess, that
the upper class girls wouldn't relish her interference. Ellen says you
must be sure to be at the try-out. She hopes you----" Jerry left off
speaking and looked sheepish.
"Well, why don't you finish? What does Ellen wish me to do?"
"You'll find out at the try-out. Now don't ask me any more questions
about it." Jerry's cheerful grin belied her brusque words.
"You're a very tantalizing person," smiled Marjorie. "There goes the
second bell. I'll see you later." She scudded away, wondering what it
was that Jerry had stoutly refused to reveal. Evidently, it must be
something of pleasant import, else Jerry would have frowned rather than
smiled.
The next day, directly after opening exercises, Miss Merton dryly read
out the official call to the try-out. It was received by the junior
section with an audible joy which she sternly quenched. Miss Merton was
in even less sympathy with "that rough-and-tumble game" than she was
with the girls who elected to play it. It was directly due to her that
Miss Davis had lost interest in it.
To those intimately interested in making the junior team, the Tuesday
afternoon session seemed interminable. Eager eyes frequently consulted
the moon-faced study-hall clock, as its hands traveled imperturbably
toward the hour of reprieve. Would half-past three never come? At ten
minutes past three Muriel Harding's impatience vented itself in the
writing of a heart-felt complaint to Marjorie. She wrote:
"This afternoon is one hundred years long. Darling Miss Merton
wishes it was two hundred. The very idea that we are going to the
try-out gives her pain. She hates herself, but she hates basket ball
worse. If I should invite her to the try-out she would gobble me up.
So I shall not risk my precious self. You may do the inviting."
This uncomplimentary tribute to Miss Merton was whisked successfully
down the section and into Marjorie's hands. As note-passing was
obnoxious to the crabbed teacher, Muriel had neither addressed nor
signed it. She had craftily whispered her instructions to the girl ahead
of her, who had obligingly repeated them to the next and so on down the
row. Unfortunately, Miss Merton's eyes had spied it on its journey. She
instantly left her desk to pounce upon it at the moment it was delivered
into Marjorie's keeping.
"You may give me that note, Miss Dean," she thundered, extending a thin,
rigid hand.
"Pardon me, Miss Merton, but this note is for _me_." Her fingers closing
about it, Marjorie lifted resolute, brown eyes to the disagreeable face
above her.
"Give it to me instantly. You are an impertinent young woman." Miss
Merton glared down as though quite ready to take Marjorie by the
shoulders and shake her.
Back in her own seat, Muriel Harding was divided between admiration for
Marjorie and fear that she would yield to Miss Merton's demand. Despite
lack of signature, the latter would have little trouble in identifying
the writer were she given a chance to read the note. Muriel saw trouble
looming darkly on her horizon.
"I am sorry you think me impertinent. I do not mean to be." The soft
voice rang with quiet decision. "But I cannot give you this note."
Marjorie calmly put the note in her blouse, and, folding her hands,
awaited the storm.
"You will stay here to-night until you give it to me," decreed Miss
Merton grimly. Beaten for the time, she stalked back to her desk, quite
aware that she could hardly have imposed a more crushing penalty. True,
her effort to obtain the note had been fruitless, but one thing was
patent: Marjorie Dean would not be present at the junior basket ball
try-out.