Marjorie Dean, High School Freshman Part 26

LETTING BYGONES BE BYGONES

Marjorie touched the b.u.t.ton of the electric bell for admittance, but her finger had scarcely left it when the door was opened by her mother, who regarded her daughter with mingled amazement and alarm.

"Why, Marjorie!" she cried. "What has happened to you?"

"Don't be frightened, Mother. I know I look awfully funny!" Marjorie stepped into the hall, with a superb disregard for her strange appearance, a.s.sumed with a view to calming Mrs. Dean's fears.

"I--a canoe tipped over and I helped one of the girls out of the river and got wet. My clothes are down at the boathouse drying. Jerry went home and brought back some of hers for me. That's why I look so different. She didn't come here for fear of scaring you."

"You have been in the river!" gasped her mother in horror, "and it's unusually high just now."

"But it didn't hurt me a bit," averred Marjorie, cheerfully. "I can swim, and someone had to help Marcia. Come upstairs with me while I get into my own clothes and I'll tell you all about it."

They had reached her room and Mrs. Dean was eyeing her lively little lieutenant doubtfully. "Are you sure you feel well, Marjorie?" she asked anxiously.

"Perfectly splendid, Captain," was the extravagant a.s.surance, as Marjorie gently backed her mother into a chair. "I'm going to get out of Jerry's clothes and into my own and then we'll have a nice comfy old talk."

Slipping into a one-piece frock of blue linen, Marjorie brushed her dampened brown curls thoroughly dry and let them fall over her shoulders. Placing a sofa pillow on the floor close to her mother, she settled herself cozily at her mother's side and leaned against her knee, looking far more like a little girl than a young woman of seventeen.

It was a very long talk, for there was much to be said, and it lasted until the sun dropped low in the west and the early twilight shadows fell.

A sudden loud ring of the doorbell sent Marjorie scurrying to the door.

She opened it to find a messenger boy, bearing a long, white box with the name of Sanford's princ.i.p.al florist upon it.

"For Miss Marjorie Dean," said the boy, handing her the box.

"Oh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the surprised lieutenant, almost dropping the box in her astonishment. Carrying it to the living-room table, she lifted the lid and exclaimed again over its fragrant contents. Exquisite, long-stemmed pink roses had been someone's tribute to Marjorie, and a card tucked in among their perfumed petals proclaimed that someone to be Harold Macy. At the bottom of the card was inscribed in Hal's boyish hand, "To my friend, Marjorie Dean, a real heroine."

Marjorie had scarcely recovered from this pleasant shock when her father appeared upon the scene and gathered her into his arms with an anxious, "How's my brave little lieutenant?"

"Why, General, who told you?" cried Marjorie. "I never dreamed you'd hear of it."

"It came to me through Mr. Arnold, who has the next office to mine,"

said Mr. Dean. "Mrs. Arnold telephoned him as soon as her daughter reached home. She was afraid he might hear an incorrect report of it from some other source."

"We never thought of that. We should have telephoned you. But it's my fault. I kept mother up in my room and talked so long to her that she forgot it," avowed Marjorie, apologetically.

"It's too late for apologies," Mr. Dean a.s.sumed an air of deep injury.

Then he laughed and drew from his coat pocket a small package. "Here's an appreciation of bravery," he declared. "To the brave belongs the golden circlet of courage. We might also call it your commission to first lieutenancy. I think you've won your promotion."

Marjorie's second surprise was a gold bracelet, delicately chased, for which she had sighed more than once.

Sunday dawned as radiantly as had the preceding day. Marjorie went to church in a peculiarly exalted mood, and came home feeling at peace with the world. After dinner she took a book and went out into a little vine-covered paG.o.da built at one end of the lawn, which was fitted with rustic seats and a small table. Here it was that she and her captain had planned to spend many of the long summer afternoons reading and sewing, and it was here that Marcia found her.

"I have something for you, Marjorie," she said in a low voice. Then she opened a little silver mesh bag and drawing forth a small, glittering object handed it to the other girl.

Marjorie's eyes opened wide. With a gurgle of joy she caught the little object and fingered it lovingly. "My very own b.u.t.terfly! Where in the world did you find it, Marcia?"

"I didn't find it," returned Marcia, huskily.

"Then who did?"

"Mignon. She found it the day after you lost it. I don't like to tell you these things, but I believe it is right that you should know. She kept it merely to hurt you. She knew you were fond of it. Muriel told her all about your receiving it as a farewell gift from your friends.

I--I--am to blame, too. I knew she had it. She intended to give it back after a while. Then she saw Miss Stevens with one like it and noticed the queer way you looked at her pin in French cla.s.s that day. She is very shrewd and observing. She suspected that you girls had quarreled, and so she put two and two together. She actually hates Miss Stevens, and told me she would never give the pin back if she could make Miss Stevens any trouble by keeping it.

"Then she went to Miss Archer and told her about her bracelet and the pin, too." Marcia paused, looking miserable.

"Miss Archer sent for me and questioned me about my pin," said Marjorie, gravely. "She is vexed with me still because I wouldn't say anything.

You see I had misjudged Constance. I thought she had found it and kept it. It is only lately that I learned what a dreadful mistake I made. I think I ought to let you know, Marcia, that Constance is in Sanford. She is coming back to school on Monday and going straight to Miss Archer's office to prove her innocence. Constance was Cinderella at the dance Friday night. Jerry made her come to the party on purpose to bring us together. Constance's b.u.t.terfly pin was a present from her aunt. We know the truth about Mignon's bracelet, too. Did you know that Mignon never lost it, Marcia? She only pretended that she had."

The secretary shook her head in emphatic denial. "I'm not guilty of that, at least. I hope I'll never do anything underhanded or dishonorable again. It's dreadful to think that Miss Archer will have to know what a despicable girl I've been, but that's part of my punishment.

I suppose she won't have me for her secretary any more."

Marcia's face wore an expression of complete resignation. She had been a party to a dishonorable act, and her reaping promised to be bitter indeed.

"It means a whole lot to you to be secretary, doesn't it, Marcia?" asked Marjorie, slowly.

"Yes. This is my third year. I've been saving the money to go to college. Father couldn't afford to pay all my expenses. I----" Marcia broke down and covered her face with her hands.

Marjorie regarded the secretary with a puzzled frown. She was apparently turning over some problem in her mind.

"Marcia, how did you obtain my b.u.t.terfly from Mignon?"

Marcia's hands dropped slowly from her face. "I went to her house this morning and made her give it to me. She tried to make me promise that I would say she found it only a day or two ago. I didn't promise. I'm glad I can say that."

"Would you go with me to her home?" asked Marjorie, abruptly. "I have thought of a way to settle the whole affair without Miss Archer knowing about either of you."

"Oh, if it could only be settled among ourselves!" cried Marcia, clasping her hands. "I'll go with you. She is at home this afternoon, too. I came from her house here."

"Wait just a moment, then, until I run indoors for my hat."

Marjorie walked briskly across the lawn to the house. She was back in a twinkling, a pretty white flower-trimmed hat on her head, carrying a white fluffy parasol that matched her dainty lingerie gown.

"How beautiful Mignon's home is!" she exclaimed softly, as they entered the beautiful grounds of the La Salle estate and walked up the broad driveway bordered with maples. "There's Mignon on the veranda. She is alone. I am glad of that."

"What are you going to say to her?" asked Marcia, her curiosity getting the better of her dejection, for Mignon had risen with a muttered exclamation, and was coming toward them with the quick, catlike movements that so characterized her.

"What do you mean, Marcia Arnold," she began fiercely, "by----"

"Miss Arnold is not responsible for our call this afternoon, Miss La Salle," broke in Marjorie, coolly. "I asked her to come here with me."

Mignon glared at the other girl in speechless anger. Her roving black eyes suddenly spied the b.u.t.terfly pinned in the lace folds of Marjorie's frock.

"Oh, I see," she sneered. "You think I'm going to tell you all about your trumpery b.u.t.terfly pin. You are mistaken, I shall tell you nothing."

"I believe I am in possession of all the facts concerning my b.u.t.terfly,"

returned Marjorie, dryly, "and also those relating to your supposedly lost bracelet."