Marjorie Dean, High School Sophomore

"Ain't a 'diclus child," contradicted Charlie with dignity. "I'm a mesishun. I can play the fiddle. I like Mary. I don't like you."

"I have heard that this Stevens boy was an idiot. Now I believe it," snapped Mignon. "I suppose I'll have to take him in until some one comes after him. I didn't know his uncle was to be one of the musicians. If I had, I would have made the leader hire some other man. I sha'n't tell his uncle that he's here. He's hired to play for my dance, not to waste his time taking a simpleton home. It's a perfect nuisance."

Her long hoop ear-rings swung and shook with the vehemence of her displeasure.

Mary Raymond's face changed from red to white as she listened to the French girl's callous speech. A lover of all children, she could not endure the slight put upon this tiny boy. She straightened up with an alacrity that nearly threw Charlie off his balance. Her blue eyes flashed with righteous wrath. "How can you be so harsh with this cunning boy?" she cried. "He isn't an idiot or a simpleton! He's as bright as – as – " (courtesy conquered) "as any child of his age. Why, he's only a baby. He's not going into your house, either, to wait for his family to find him. He's going home now, and I'm going to take him."

"You can't go very far in that short dress and those thin slippers," mocked Mignon. "Don't be a silly. Bring him in, I say, and hurry. I must go back to my guests."

"Please go to them," Mary spoke in icily dignified tones. "As for me, I have my cloak." She held forth one bare arm on which swung her long, gray evening cape. "I should never forgive myself if I neglected this little tot. I'm sorry to be so rude, but I can't help it. I'm going now. Good night. Come, Charlie." Wrapping her cloak about her, Mary gently disengaged the violin case from Charlie's clutch, tucked it under one arm and took firm hold of the youngster's hand. Charlie was still regarding Mignon's swaying ear-rings with childish fascination.

"You are a orful naughty girl," he pouted reproachfully.

"If you leave me now to take that impudent child home, I'll never speak to you again," threatened Mignon, her black eyes snapping.

"Very well. You may do as you please," was Mary's laconic response over her shoulder. She had already started down the driveway with her venturesome charge. The little boy had been momentarily awed into silence at Mignon's menacing features.

"She's a cross girl," he observed calmly, as he marched along beside Mary, "but we don't care, do we?"

"No, we don't," came emphatically from Mary's lips. And she meant it.

CHAPTER XXII

FACE TO FACE WITH HERSELF

Although Mary Raymond had deliberately snapped the chain that bound her to Mignon La Salle, she now found herself confronted by a far more difficult task. How was she to return little Charlie to Gray Gables without meeting Constance Stevens or another member of her family? It was not yet nine o'clock. It was, therefore, barely possible that Charlie had not been missed. Perhaps Constance and her aunt were not at home. It stood to reason that if they had been, Charlie would never have succeeded in slipping away and following John Roland to his evening's assignment.

Once outside the La Salle's gate, Mary paused uncertainly. Charlie tugged impatiently at her hand. "Come on, Mary. Take Charlie home," he demanded.

Apparently unmindful of the child's presence, Mary stood still, staring thoughtfully up and down the moonlit street. It was an unusually mild night for that time of year, and the ground was bare of snow. March was in a deceptive, springlike mood, smiling and sunny by day, with the merest touch of snappiness by night. Nevertheless, it was scarcely an occasion for a walk in thin kid slippers and silk stockings, and Mary shivered slightly as she stood there trying to decide what was to be done.

"Listen to Mary, Charlie boy," she began suddenly, bending down and looking seriously into the child's bright, black eyes. "Where were Connie and Auntie when you ran away?"

"They runned away from Charlie," was the prompt reply, given with an aggrieved pout. "Charlie wanted to go, too, and Connie said 'no.' They wented to the the'ter where the band plays all the time."

"And where was nurse?"

"She wented away, too, but Connie didn't know it. She thought Charlie didn't know, either. But she told Bessie, and Charlie heard."

"So, that is the reason," murmured Mary. Then she said to Charlie, "If Mary takes you home will you promise her something?"

"Yes," nodded Charlie.

"Then promise Mary that you won't tell anyone you ran away, or that Mary brought you home."

"Aren't you going to tell Connie that Charlie was a naughty boy?" came the anxious question.

"No, not unless someone sees Charlie when he goes home and asks about it."

"Then Charlie won't tell, either," was the calm response. The boy was proving himself anything but a simpleton.

"All right. Now we must hurry." Mary took firm hold of the tiny hand and the two started for Gray Gables as fast as the boy's small feet would permit of walking. It was not far from the La Salle's home to Gray Gables. Mary was thankful for that. Not in the least oppressed with a sense of his own shortcomings, Charlie kept up an animated conversation during the short walk. He even proposed stopping in the middle of the street to demonstrate for her special edification his prowess as a fiddler. Mary vetoed this proposal, however. She was bent on reaching Gray Gables as soon as possible.

Just inside the grounds she halted and viewed the house with speculative eyes. Lights gleamed from the hall, the living room, and from one upstairs window. Then, with Charlie's hand still in hers, she walked boldly up the driveway and mounted the steps. Within the shielding shadow of the veranda she paused for a long moment and listened. Turning to the child she laid her finger on her lips with a gesture of silence. Charlie beamed understandingly. Mary's strange behavior was as interesting to him as though it were a new game invented for his pleasure. He entered completely into the spirit of it.

"Now," whispered the girl, "Mary is going to ring the bell and run away. Charlie must stand still and wait until someone opens the door. If no one comes, Charlie must ring the bell again. And remember, he mustn't tell who brought him home!"

"Charlie won't tell," gravely assured the youngster.

Mary pressed a firm finger on the bell and held it there for a second. Then she darted down the steps, around a corner of the house and across a wide stretch of frozen lawn. She remembered that she could climb the low fence at the back of the grounds, cut across a field which lay below them and emerge on a small street not far from the Deans' home. She did not pause for breath until she reached the street she had in mind. Flushed and panting from her wild flight it was several minutes before she could compose herself sufficiently to go on toward home. Luckily for her she met but two persons, a boy of perhaps fifteen and a laboring man. Neither gave her more than the merest glance.

But her last ordeal was yet to come. What would Marjorie and her mother think when they saw her? They would immediately guess that something unusual must have happened to bring her home from the party before it had hardly more than begun. Her recent experience had left her in no mood for explanations. She decided to try slipping quietly in at the rear door of the house. There was, of course, a possibility that it might be locked, but if it were not – so much the better for her.

There was an instant of breathless suspense as she noiselessly turned the knob. It yielded to her touch, and she stole into the kitchen and up the back stairs like an unsubstantial shadow of the night, rather than a very tired and sore-hearted girl. Once in her room she sat down on her bed to think things over. She dared not move about for fear of being heard by Marjorie or her mother. Long she sat, moodily reviewing the year that had promised so much, yet had yielded her nothing but dissension and sorrow. One bare, ugly fact confronted her, looming up like a hideous monster whose dreadful claws had shredded her peace of mind and now waved at her the tattered fragments. It had all been her fault. For the first time she saw herself as she really was. A jealous, suspicious, hateful girl. It was she, not Marjorie, who had been unfaithful to friendship. But she had gone on blindly, unreasoningly, preferring to think the worst, until now it was too late to bridge the gap that she had daily widened between herself and her chum by her absurd jealousy. She could never regain her lost ground. She felt that Marjorie's patience with her had long since been exhausted. She dared not, could not, plead for reinstatement. All that remained to be done was to go through the rest of that dreadful year alone. When she and Marjorie had finished their sophomore course she would go quietly away, and they would, perhaps, never meet again.

Alone with her bitter remorse, Mary wept until she could cry no more. As is usually the case with youth, she was sweeping in her self-condemnation. But that bitter hour of self-revelation did more to arouse within her the determination to conquer herself and establish the foundation for a noble womanhood than she could possibly believe.

At last she pulled herself together to play the final scene in her evening's drama. Mrs. Dean had given her a latchkey, in order that she might let herself into the house, should she return from the party after the Deans had retired. At half-past ten o'clock she heard Marjorie and her mother come up the stairs to their rooms. Mr. Dean was away from home on a business trip. When all sounds of conversation between the two women had ceased and the house had apparently settled down for the night, Mary crept softly out of her room and down the stairs. Opening the hall door with stealthy fingers, she stepped into the vestibule. She listened intently for a sign from above that her soft-footed journey down the stairs had been discovered. But none came. Turning deliberately about, she retraced her steps, closing the hall door with sufficient force to announce her arrival. Without attempt at stealth she walked across the hall, up the stairs and into the pretty blue room that she had lately left. The closing of her own door purposely sounded her home coming.

"Is that you, Mary?" called Marjorie's voice from the next room.

Mary trembled with positive relief at the signal success of her manoeuver. Steadying her voice, she replied, "Yes, it is I."

"Did you have a nice time?"

Mary read merely polite inquiry in the tone. It lacked Marjorie's former warmth and affection.

"Not particularly." Impulsively she added, "I missed you, Marjorie. I'm sorry you weren't there." Breathlessly she waited for a response.

But Marjorie was only human. Resentment against Mignon, rather than Mary, permeated her reply. "It's nice in you to say so, but I am very glad I wasn't there. I should consider an invitation to Mignon La Salle's party as anything but an honor." It was the first deliberately cutting speech that Marjorie Dean had ever uttered. Realizing its cruelty she called out contritely, "That was hateful in me, Mary. Please forget what I said."

"Oh, it doesn't matter. Good night." Mary managed to force the indifferent answer. She felt that she deserved even this and more. She was rapidly learning to her sorrow that, when one plants nettles, in time they are sure to grow up and sting.

CHAPTER XXIII

FOR THE FAME OF SANFORD HIGH

When Marjorie Dean went down to breakfast the following morning it was with the feeling that her sharp answer to Mary's unexpected comments of the night before had been unworthy of her better self. Mary's reply, "Oh, it doesn't matter," had somehow sounded wistful rather than indifferent. To be sure, Mary had literally forced upon her the reserved stand which she had at last taken. Yet underneath her proud attitude of distant courtesy toward the girl who had once taken first place in her friendship still lurked the faint hope of reconciliation. But she had made her last advance on that memorable Christmas day when Mary had shown her so plainly that she respected the flag of truce for the day only and had returned to her former state of antagonism at the first opportunity. In the beginning it had been hard to stifle her impulsive nature, and appear courteous yet wholly unconcerned regarding her chum's welfare, but in time she found it comparatively easy. Friendship was dying hard, yet it was dying, nevertheless. This thought had startled Marjorie a little as she recalled how easy it had been to be disagreeable, where once it would have seemed absolutely impossible to allow those cutting words to pass her lips. It came soberly to her that morning as she walked into the dining room that, after all, she did not wish that friendship to die. Something must be done to keep it alive until Mary was quite herself again.

The faint line of concern which appeared between her dark brows deepened as this latest conviction took hold of her. As she pondered, the object of her thoughts appeared in the doorway. Mary's face wore an air of listlessness that quite corresponded with her subdued, "Good morning, Marjorie. Good morning, Captain."

"You look all tired out, my dear," remarked Mrs. Dean solicitously. There was a curiously pathetic droop to Mary's mouth which gave her the appearance of a very tired child who had played too hard and was ready to be put to bed, rather than to begin the day's round of events. "Did you dance too much?"

"No." A peculiar little smile flickered across the girl's pale features. She wondered what Mrs. Dean would say if she told her just how she had spent her evening.

Marjorie regarded Mary almost curiously. In some indefinable way she had changed. Then it flashed across her that Mary's usual stubborn expression had given place to one of distinct sadness. With a kindly endeavor toward lightening her chum's heavy mood, she tried to draw her out to talk of the party. She met with little success. As Mary, in reality, knew nothing further of it than the fact that Mignon had worn a gypsy costume and that the majority of the boys invited had not put in an appearance, she was hardly prepared to describe the affair. She, therefore, answered Marjorie's questions in brief monosyllables and volunteered no information whatever.

"I am going over to see Jerry Macy this morning. Would you like to go with me?" asked Marjorie, after her attempt to discuss the party had proved futile.

"No; I thank you just the same. I have several things to buy at the stores, and then I am going for a walk. I would ask you to go with me, only you are going to Jerry's."

"I'd love to," a touch of Marjorie's old heartiness came to the surface, "but I promised Jerry I'd surely go to see her to-day."

"Perhaps we can take a walk some other day," remarked Mary vaguely as they rose from the table.

"I will take you both for a ride this afternoon, if you are good," volunteered Mrs. Dean. She had been observing the signs. She decided, within herself, that matters were assuming a more hopeful turn. Yet she had long since left the two girls to work out their problem in their own way.

"That will be splendid!" cried Marjorie.

"I should like to go," acceded Mary almost shyly.

Mrs. Dean smiled to herself and saw light ahead. The barrier seemed about to crumble.

But as the days went by, both she and Marjorie grew puzzled over the change in blue-eyed Mary. She had, indeed, lost her belligerent spirit of animosity, but a profound melancholy had settled down upon her like a pall. Gradually it became noised about in school that Mary Raymond and Mignon La Salle were no longer on speaking terms. Why this was so, no one knew. Mary was mute on the subject. For once, also, the French girl had nothing to say. As it happened, she believed that no one of the guests had witnessed the scene between herself and Mary, and to try to relate it, even with emendations of her own, would hardly redound to her credit. She was too shrewd not to know that the average person resents an affront against childhood. Then, too, Constance Stevens was making rapid strides toward popularity among the girls of Sanford High School and her cowardly nature warned her to be silent. But her chief reason for silence lay in the fact that Mary had curtly informed her on the Monday morning following the party that she had seen Charlie safely home, that so far as she could learn his family did not know who had escorted him home, and that if she, Mignon, were wise she would say nothing whatever of the occurrence. Without further words, Mary had walked away, but that same afternoon she had removed her wraps to another locker, a significant sign that she was done with the French girl forever.

When it came to Marjorie's ears that Mary and Mignon had quarreled, she decided a trifle sadly that Mary's melancholy was due to the French girl's defection. She was sure that, whatever the quarrel had been about, Mignon was to blame. Until then she had never quite believed in the sincerity of Mary's affection for this unscrupulous, headstrong girl, and it hurt her to see Mary take the estrangement so to heart.

She said as much to Constance Stevens as they walked home from school together on the Monday following the Easter vacation. To Marjorie the Easter holidays had been a continuous succession of good times. She had attended half a dozen parties given by her various schoolmates, and numerous luncheons and teas. To all these Mary had received invitations also. She had politely declined them, however, going on long, lonely walks by day and moping in the living room or her own room by night.

"Somehow," Marjorie confided to Constance, "I never believed Mary could be so deceived in a person. But she must think a lot of Mignon, or she wouldn't be so dreadfully sad all the time."

"It's queer," mused Constance. "I don't think she knows to this day the truth about last year."

"I am sure she doesn't. Mary is really too honorable to stand by a – a – person that you and I know isn't worthy of loyalty. That sounds rather hard, especially from one of the reform party. But I can't help it. I am quite ready to say and mean it, Mignon La Salle hasn't a better self. She never had one!"

"It hasn't been very pleasant for you this year, has it?" was Constance's sympathizing question. "It's too bad. After all the nice things we had planned. Sometimes I think it is better not to make plans. They never turn out as one hopes they will."

"I know it," rejoined Marjorie with a sigh. "Jerry Macy says that Mary has something on her mind besides Mignon."

"Perhaps she is sorry that she – " Constance hesitated.

"That we aren't chums any more?" finished Marjorie. "I don't think so. If she had been truly sorry she would have come to me and said so. I thought so the day after Mignon's party. Then I heard that they had quarreled, and I changed my opinion." There was a faint touch of bitterness in Marjorie's speech. "Suppose we don't talk of it any more. I wish to forget it, if I can. It doesn't do much good to mourn over what can't and won't be changed. Did Jerry tell you that Laurie Armitage has finished his operetta? Professor Harmon is going to have a try-out of voices in the gymnasium next Saturday morning."

"Laurie told me himself. He brought the score of the operetta to Gray Gables last night and we tried it over on the piano. The music is beautiful. It is so tuneful it lingers. I've been humming snatches of it ever since he played it for me. The 'Rebellious Princess' has some wonderful songs. That clever young man, Eric Darrow, composed the libretto and thought out the plot. It's about a princess who grew tired of staying at home in her father's castle and going to state dinners and receptions, so she put on the dress of a peasant girl and ran away from the castle to see the world. She took some gold with her, but it was stolen from her the very first thing. No one paid any attention to her because she was poor, and she had a dreadfully hard time. But she was so stubborn she wouldn't go back to her father and say she was sorry, so she wandered on until her clothes were ragged and her shoes were worn out. Then an old woman took the poor princess to live with her and she had to work terribly hard and wait on the woman's daughter, who loved nothing but pretty clothes and to have a good time. No one was good to her except the woman's adopted son, who was left on her doorstep when he was a baby. At last the princess grew so tired of it all she went back to her father, but to punish her he pretended he didn't know her. So she had to go away again, but the woman's son had followed her and when he saw her leave the castle, crying, he told her he loved her and asked her to marry him. She said 'yes,' because he was the only person in the world who cared for her. But her father hadn't really intended that she should go away. He sent his courtiers after her to bring her back to the castle. She wanted to go back, but she wouldn't go unless the young man went with her. When he found out that she was really a great princess he said he would never dare to ask her to marry him. But she said that true love was better than all the wealth in the world, and she would not go back unless he went with her, and so he said he would go. That is where the operetta ends. They sing a duet, 'True Love Is Best,' and you have to imagine what the king said. There isn't so much in the plot, but it is very sweet, and the music is delightful," finished Constance.

"I know I shall love to hear it!" exclaimed Marjorie. "I do hope you will be chosen to sing the part of the princess."

Constance flushed. "Laurie wishes me to have it," she said almost humbly. "But there are sure to be others who can sing it better than I. However, the try-out will settle that. At any rate, I may be chosen for a court lady in the chorus. I hope you'll be in it, too."

"I can't sing well enough," laughed Marjorie. "But I'll be there on Saturday, and perhaps I'll be lucky enough to get into it somehow. Won't it be fun to rehearse? Hal Macy ought to have a part. He has a splendid tenor voice, and the Crane can sing bass. I can hardly wait until Saturday comes. I am so anxious to see who will be chosen."

Marjorie's pleasant anxiety was shared by the majority of the girls of Sanford High School. The proposed operetta became the chief topic for discussion as the unusually long week dragged interminably along toward that fateful Saturday. Even the high and mighty seniors condescended to become interested. Among their number, more than one ambitious seeker after fame secretly imagined herself as carrying off the rôle of the Rebellious Princess, and conducted assiduous practice of much neglected scales in the hope of glory to come.

As the star singer of her class, Constance Stevens' name was often brought up for discussion among her classmates as the possibly successful contestant in the try-out. Besides, was it not Lawrence Armitage's opera? It was generally known that the dark-haired, dreamy-eyed lad had a decided predeliction for Constance's society. Rumor, therefore, decreed that if Laurie Armitage had the say, Constance would have no trouble in carrying off the leading rôle.

But the most determined aspirant for fame was none other than Mignon La Salle. With her usual slyness, she kept her own counsel. Nevertheless, she believed she stood a fair chance of winning the prize of which she dreamed. For Mignon could sing. From childhood her father had spared no expense in the matter of her musical education. An ardent lover of music he had decreed that Mignon should be initiated into the mysteries of the piano when a tiny girl, and, although Mr. La Salle had allowed her undisputed liberty to grow up as she pleased, on one point he was firm. Mignon must not merely study music; she must each day practice the required number of hours. In the beginning she had rebelled, but finding her too indulgent parent adamant in this one particular, she had been forced to bow her obstinate head to his decree. In consequence she profited by the enforced practice hours to the extent of becoming a really creditable performer on the piano for a girl of her years. At fourteen she had begun vocal training. Possessed of a strong, clear, soprano voice, three years under the direction of competent instructors had done much for her, and, although she was far too selfish to use her fine voice merely to give pleasure to others, she never allowed an opportunity to pass wherein she might win public approval by her singing.