Marjorie Dean High School Senior Part 25

A confused outcry followed her loud exclamation as each girl attempted an individual remark.

"Open the envelope! Hurry, Marjorie! I wonder what made her send it back! It's a miracle!"

All this was directed to Marjorie, as she obediently ripped open the envelope. Exploring it for a note, a shower of small change fell from it to the floor. Stooping, she hastily gathered it together. "There is nothing else in the envelope," she said, her lips curving in a whimsical smile. "Susan, you are no longer a treasureless treasurer. Please a.s.sume the duties of your office and count this money. As for me, I can't really make it seem true." Turning the money over to Susan, Marjorie dropped into a nearby chair, a prey to mingled emotions.

"What do you suppose happened to Mignon to make her send--" began Muriel wonderingly. A second peal of the doorbell sent her speeding again to the door, her question half-asked. A moment and the alert listeners heard her voice raised in a little ecstatic cry of "Jerry!"

Hearing it, the Lookouts made for the wide doorway of the living room in a body. On the threshold their rush was checked. Her arm about Muriel's waist, Jerry Macy stood surveying them, her round face wreathed in smiles.

"Well, Lookouts, I've come back," she announced sheepishly. "I've been hanging around outside the house for the last hour waiting to see if anything would happen. Of course I wasn't sure, but I had an idea Mignon would send that money here to-night. I thoughtfully sent her an unsigned typewritten notice stating where the meeting was to be. I see the money's here, all right enough." Her shrewd gaze had singled out the bundle of banknotes on the library table. "I saw the La Salles'

chauffeur stop his car at the gate, so I guessed things were O. K."

These remarkable statements were received by a volley of curious, exclamatory questions, all hurled at Jerry in the same moment.

"Jerry," entreated Marjorie, when she could make herself heard, "won't you please take your old place and explain a few things? We can never get to the bottom of this miracle unless you tell us." Stepping forward, she stretched forth two impulsive hands. Jerry's own hands shot out and caught them in a tight clasp. All the pain of separation and joy of reconciliation went into that meeting of hands.

Affectionately escorted by Marjorie to the president's chair, Jerry dropped into it with a sigh. "Maybe it isn't good to be back," she said, a suspicious quaver in her usually matter-of-fact tones. "Now draw up your chairs, children, and I'll tell you the whole terrible tale of the treacherous treasurer and the slippery sleuth. But before I begin it, I want to say right here that I've been every variety of goose that ever happened. I'm only going to hold down the presidential chair until I tell my story: Then Muriel is going to take it again and I'm going to be just a member of the club."

So saying, Jerry launched forth with an account of her exploits as a sleuth which held her hearers' divided between laughter at her artful methods and pity for the girl who had never learned to rule her own spirit. "That's all," she ended. "Now I'm going to beat it-I mean vacate this chair."

"You mean you're going to sit right where you are," a.s.serted Muriel with decision. "Lookouts," she turned to the little company who were now on their feet to protest against Jerry's avowed intention, "there can never be but one president for us; Jerry, Geraldine Jeremiah Macy!"

And thus in her moment of penitent renunciation, too-hasty but valiant-hearted Jerry received a never-to-be-forgotten lesson in loyalty.

CHAPTER XXVI-HER BETTER SELF

The week following Jerry's return to the Lookouts, together with the restoration of their cached money, took on a distinctly festival tone. A round of jolly little merry-makings went on at the various members'

homes, on each occasion of which Jerry was the guest of honor. Her aggravating behavior of the past was completely obliterated by the Lookouts' joy at her return to them.

Quite the contrary, Mignon La Salle was speedily beginning to realize that "the way of the transgressor is hard." It was not remorse for her despicable conduct that had forced this knowledge upon her. The moment that the money, which she had tantalizingly withheld from the club out of spite, was out of her hands, her courage came back with a rush. She had already reached the stage of upbraiding herself for having thus been so easily frightened, when a dire calamity befell her.

Three days after she had dispatched William to Harriet's home with the fateful package, her father returned. Having occasion to enter the First National Bank of Sanford on business, he heard there a tale from its vice-president that sent him hurrying from the bank in wrathful quest of his unmanageable daughter. In taking this step, Mr. Wendell had been actuated by what he believed to be the best of motives. As a close friend of Mr. La Salle, the vice-president had deemed it his duty to inform the Frenchman of the affair. A rigid advocate of the belief that the younger generation was allowed entirely too much liberty, he had not been in sympathy with the delicate consideration the Lookouts had exhibited toward Mignon. He was of the opinion that she should be severely punished, and accordingly const.i.tuted himself as a committee of one to act in the matter.

Completely out of patience with his lawless daughter, Mr. La Salle had left the bank, enraged determination in his eye. He had proceeded directly to Sanford High School, insisting there that Mignon be released from study for the day. With no word of greeting other than a stern, "Wicked, ungrateful girl, I have found you out," he marched her home with him. Once safely in the confines of his own residence, he let loose on her a torrent of recrimination, half English, half French, that reduced her to the lowest depths of terrified humility. At the end of it, he p.r.o.nounced doom. "You shall go to a convent school at once. You shall not have the honor to graduate in the same cla.s.s with the excellent young women you have so shamefully treated. In a convent school, all the time you will be watched. Then, perhaps, you will learn that it pays not to do wrong."

In vain Mignon wept, pleaded, promised. This time her father was adamant. He sternly forbade her return to Sanford High School and would hardly allow her to leave the house. He visited Miss Archer, stating gloomily to the surprised princ.i.p.al that due to Mignon's own failings he had decided to remove her from high school and place her in the more strict environment of a convent school. To her kindly proposal that he give his erring daughter another chance, he made emphatic refusal. "She has defied me one time too often," he declared. "Now she must of a truth be severely punished."

He wrote a note to the Lookout Club, apologizing for his daughter's shortcomings, and he also wrote another, much in the same strain, to Marjorie Dean, thanking her for past kindnesses and releasing her from her promise. In the note to Marjorie he stated his unrelenting resolve regarding Mignon. Though she had small reason to feel sympathy for Mignon, nevertheless Marjorie pitied her whole-heartedly. As she solemnly remarked to her captain, it was very hard on Mignon to be s.n.a.t.c.hed from school almost on the very eve of her graduation.

Meanwhile, Mignon was racking her troubled brain for some means of evading the fate her father had thrust upon her. Thus far she had not dared write Rowena and confess that she had been frightened into returning the Lookouts' money. She had known only too well the weight of her friend's displeasure even in small matters. Rowena would never forgive her for thus having so easily given in. Urged on by the conviction that no one save Rowena could suggest a way out of her present difficulty, Mignon finally sat down and wrote her a most garbled account of her defeat. She represented herself to be the victim of a deep-laid plot and a much-abused person all around. She ended with a vigorous tirade against her father and appealed desperately to Rowena for help out of her difficulties. Her father was already in communication with the head of the school to which he had decreed she should go, she informed Rowena. "If you are truly my friend," she wrote, "try to think of some way to help me out of this trouble."

By keeping an alert watch on the mail, Mignon managed to lay hands on Rowena's answer to her plea, which arrived three days after the sending of her letter to her boon companion. It arrived at her home during her father's absence and she lost no time in locking herself in her room, there to read it undisturbed. The first two pages consisted entirely of Rowena's brutally frank opinion of her for being so cowardly. The third and fourth, however, held a suggestion that fairly took Mignon's breath.

At first she mentally flung it aside as impossible. Considering it further, she became better pleased with it. After a half hour of somber reflection, she decided to adopt it.

Mignon was not the only one, however, who had a problem to consider.

Marjorie Dean was also wrestling with a difficulty of her own. Since the receipt of Mr. La Salle's note, she had thought frequently and sorrowfully of wayward Mignon. Several times she had attempted to answer the Frenchman's note, but could think of nothing to say. She did not approve of his plan to cut his daughter off from the graduation she had so nearly won. Still, she could hardly set down her opinion in a letter to him. After several days of troubled reflection, she decided to go to him and ask him to reconsider his determination.

To her friends she said nothing of this; to her captain she said a great deal. Mrs. Dean made no attempt to dissuade her. "You must fight it out by yourself, Lieutenant," she counseled. "If you feel that Mignon is really worth your good offices, then by all means go to her father.

Remember, she has never played fairly with you. You are still in the dark as to what means she employed to estrange poor little Lucy Warner from you."

"I know it," sighed Marjorie. "Still, I feel so sorry for her that I can't bear to stand by and not try to help her. I think I'll go to Mr.

La Salle's office after school is over for the day."

In order not to arouse her friends' curiosity, she strolled home from school with them as usual. Stopping merely to salute her captain, she faced about and hurried toward the main street of the little city on which his office was situated. To her deep disappointment she found his office locked. It meant a trip to his residence after dinner that evening. She must lose no further time in obtaining an interview with him, else it might be too late. He had written that Mignon was to be sent away immediately.

When she started out for the office the sky had looked threatening.

Before she reached home it had begun to rain, and by dinner time a heavy downpour had set in that bade fair to keep up steadily all evening. Not to be thus easily disheartened, Marjorie waited until almost eight o'clock, then announced her determination to go at any rate.

"Then I shall go with you," decided her mother. "You shall not go alone to Mignon's house. We will drive in the automobile. There is a poor woman who lives near the La Salles on whom I ought to call. I will stop at her home and wait for you there while you make your plea to Mr. La Salle."

This was highly satisfactory to Marjorie. A few minutes later, prepared to face the storm, Marjorie and her captain had repaired to the Deans'

small garage at the back of the house for the automobile, and were soon driving through the rain on their double errand of mercy.

"You needn't bother to take me the rest of the way, Captain," a.s.sured Marjorie, as they neared the shabby little house where Mrs. Dean was to make her call. "It's only a block. I'll run fast and hardly get wet. My hat and raincoat will stand the bad weather."

"Suit yourself," smiled her mother as Marjorie skipped lightly out of the car. "Don't be too long, dear. I will wait for you, but try to come back within the half hour."

"Always obey your superior officer." Her hand to her soft felt hat, Marjorie made jaunty salute. Then she flitted on up the street and was soon lost in the blackness of the night.

Her mind on her errand, she hurried along, paying small attention to the discomfort of the falling rain. The La Salle estate, which occupied half a block, lay just around a corner from the place where she had alighted.

Her head bent, she made the turn just in time to collide sharply with a pedestrian who was approaching on a run from the opposite direction. The force of the collision sent a suitcase that the latter was carrying to the sidewalk.

"I beg your pardon," began Marjorie. "Did I--"

"Why don't you look where you're going?" demanded an angry voice, as the owner of the suitcase stooped to recover it.

At sound of the familiar tones, Marjorie cried out: "Mignon La Salle!

Why, Mignon, you are the last person I expected to see on such a night."

Pausing, she regarded the still stooping girl in pure astonishment. To meet Mignon hurrying along on foot through the rain, minus an umbrella and burdened with a suitcase struck her as being decidedly peculiar.

Mignon straightened up with an angry jerk. "You've made me lose my handbag," she accused furiously. "I let go of it with my suitcase when _you_ came blundering along and crashed against me. You've always brought me bad luck, Marjorie Dean. I wish you'd never came to Sanford to live. I'll miss my train and it will be _your_ fault. Don't stand there like a dummy. Help me hunt for my bag. I've got to make my train.

Do you hear me?"

Already Marjorie was bending low, her anxious hands groping about on the sidewalk in search of the lost bag. Mignon, too, was hunting frantically for it, keeping up a continuous fire of half-sarcastic, half-lamenting remark.

"Here it is," cried Marjorie, as her searching fingers came in contact with the leather of the bag. "I'm glad I found it and I'm sorry I made you drop it." Privately she was wondering at Mignon's apparent agitation. It was far more intense than her anger.

Both girls straightening up simultaneously, Marjorie caught full sight of Mignon's face under the flickering gleam of a neighboring arc light.

It was white and set and her black eyes held a hunted, desperate look.

Without a word of thanks she s.n.a.t.c.hed the bag from Marjorie's hand, picked up her suitcase and started on.

Yet in that revealing instant under the arc light a sudden, terrifying apprehension laid hold on Marjorie. Mignon's pale, tense features, her evident haste, the suitcase, her frenzied determination to make the train, the fact that she was rus.h.i.+ng through the rain on foot to the station-all seemed to tally with the dreadful suspicion that gripped Marjorie. Could it be that Mignon was running away from home?

To think was to act with Marjorie. In a flash she was speeding to overtake the fleeing girl, now a few yards ahead of her. Catching up with Mignon, she cried out on impulse, "You mustn't run away from home, Mignon! Please, _please_ go back with me! When I met you I was on my way to your house to ask your father if you couldn't stay in Sanford High and graduate with our cla.s.s."