Marjorie Dean, High School Junior

Unfortunately for Mignon, a sudden business emergency sent Mr. La Salle speeding to Buffalo on the Saturday morning train. Before going, however, he instructed his chauffeur to drive Mignon to the train for Riverview and see her safely on it. With others of the cast on the same train, she would be in good company. But the best laid plans often go astray. Ever on the alert for treachery, Rowena saw Mr. La Salle depart and hurrying to the La Salle’s home soon bullied the true state of affairs from his petulant offspring.

“Don’t bother about taking the train,” Rowena counseled arrogantly. “James will drive us over to Riverview in our limousine. He can stay there until the show is over and bring us home.”

“I can’t do that,” parried Mignon. “My father gave orders to William to drive me to the train the cast is to take and put me on it. If I were to go with you, William would tell him.”

“Oh, no, he wouldn’t,” retorted Rowena. “Just let me talk to William.” Without waiting for further excuses from Mignon, the self-willed sophomore dashed out of the house in the direction of the La Salle garage. Mignon followed her, divided between vexation and approbation. She was far from anxious to make the journey to Riverview by train. For once Rowena stood for the lesser of two evils.

“Come here, William,” called Rowena, pausing outside the open garage door and imperiously beckoning the chauffeur who was engaged in putting a fresh tire on Mignon’s runabout.

“What is it, Miss?” asked the man, as he frowningly approached Rowena.

“You needn’t take Miss La Salle to the train this afternoon. She’s going with me. She has so much luggage she can’t manage it on the train, so she had to make different arrangements.” Rowena presented a formidably smiling front as she gave her command.

“But Mr. La Salle – ” protested William.

“Don’t be impertinent,” was the freezing interruption. “We know our own business. Miss La Salle’s father will know all about it when he returns. Won’t he?” She turned to Mignon for confirmation.

“It is all right, William,” the latter assured him, purposely neglecting to answer Rowena’s question. “My father will be told when he returns. He forgot about my luggage.”

“All right, Miss Mignon.” William was far too discreet to court the double attack, which he knew would be forthcoming, should he continue to protest. Miss Mignon always did as she pleased, regardless of her father. He made mental note, however, to clear himself the instant his employer returned.

“That was simple enough,” exulted Rowena, as they turned away. “You ought to be glad I fixed everything so nicely for you. I expect some of those snippy girls will be anything but pleased to have me behind the scenes to-night.”

“You’d better keep to my dressing room,” warned Mignon. “On account of it being a different theatre, there is sure to be some confusion. Laurie Armitage won’t like it if you go strolling around among the cast the way you’ve done at rehearsals.”

“You just attend to your own affairs,” blustered Rowena, “and I’ll attend to mine. Who cares what that high and mighty Lawrence Armitage thinks? He’s so wrapped up in that milk-and-water baby of a Constance Stevens he doesn’t know you are alive. Too bad, isn’t it?”

Mignon turned red as a poppy. She began to wish she had not allowed Rowena to alter the arrangements her father had prudently made. Frowning her displeasure at the brutal taunt, she cast a half-longing glance toward the garage. There was still time to inform William that she had changed her mind.

Instantly Rowena marked the glance and divined its import. It did not accord with her plans. If she drove Mignon to reconsider her decision, it meant one of two things. To quarrel openly with her would place beyond reach the possibility of accompanying her to Riverview. If Rowena went there alone she could not hope to be allowed to go behind the scenes. On the other hand she dared not jeopardize her control over Mignon by permitting her to gain even one point.

“Don’t be foolish,” she advised in a more conciliatory tone. “I was only teasing you about that Stevens girl. One of these days this Armitage boy will find out what a silly little thing she is. If you are nice to me, I daresay I can help him to find it out.”

Mignon brightened visibly. From all she had learned of Rowena’s practical methods, she believed her capable of accomplishing wonders in the mischief-making line. “I suppose you mean well,” she said a trifle sullenly. “Still, I don’t think you ought to say such cutting things to me, Rowena.”

Thus once more a temporary truce was declared between these two wayward children of impulse. Though neither trusted the other, sheer love of self admonished them that they could accomplish more by hanging together. Mignon, however, was destined to learn that an unstable prop is no more to be relied upon than no prop at all.

CHAPTER XXII – THE RESULT OF PLAYING WITH FIRE

“See here, Jerry, can’t something be done to keep that Miss Farnham from completely upsetting the cast?” Laurie Armitage’s fine face was dark with disapproval as he halted Jerry, who was hurrying by him toward Constance’s dressing room. “I just heard her telling one of the girls in the chorus that her costume was ‘frightfully unbecoming.’ The poor girl turned red and looked ready to cry. She’s been circulating among the chorus ever since she and Mignon landed in the theatre. Goodness knows what else she has been saying. It won’t do. This isn’t Sanford, you know. We hope to give a perfect performance here. I wish I had told Mignon not to bring her. I hated to do it, though. She might have got wrathy and backed out at the last minute. If ever I compose another operetta, I’ll let somebody else manage it. I’m through,” Laurie concluded in disgust.

“Why don’t you ask Mignon to keep her in the dressing room?” suggested Jerry. “She’s the only one who can manage Row-ena. I doubt if she can.”

“Might as well touch a match to a bundle of firecrackers,” compared Laurie gloomily. “Can’t you think of anything else?”

Jerry studied for a moment. As Laurie’s helper she felt that she ought to measure up to the situation. “It’s almost time for the show to begin,” she said. “The chorus will soon be too busy to bother with her. After the first act, she’ll be in Mignon’s dressing room. Then I’ll slip around among the girls and whisper to them not to mind her. She can’t bother the principals. She doesn’t dare go near Constance or any of the boys like Hal and the Crane.”

“Please do that.” Laurie sighed with relief. “It will help me a great deal.”

Unaware that she had become the victim of a needful strategy, Rowena was serenely deriving huge enjoyment from the brutally frank criticisms she was lavishing right and left among the unoffending choirsters. It was a supreme happiness to her to see her carefully delivered shots strike home. But her ambition to wound lay not entirely with the chorus. She was yearning for a chance to nettle Constance Stevens, whom she hated by reason of the impassable gulf that lay between Constance and herself. Never, since she had come to Sanford, had Constance appeared even to know that she existed. This galled Rowena beyond expression. As a leader among the high school girls she had deemed Constance worth cultivating. She might as readily have tried to bring down the North Star as to ingratiate herself with this calm, lovely girl, and she knew it. Here was something which she could not obtain. Failing, she marked her as a victim for ridicule and scorn.

The first act over at last, Rowena posted herself in Mignon’s dressing room and proceeded to regale the latter with a derisive, laughing account of her fruitful wanderings among the cast. Mignon listened to her with indifference. As she opened the second act, her mind was on her rôle. She was hardly aware that her tormentor had left the dressing room until she became conscious that the high-pitched tones had suddenly ceased.

Mignon proving altogether too non-committal to suit her difficult fancy, Rowena had fared forth in search of fresh adventure. The star dressing room, occupied by Constance, lay two doors farther down the corridor. In passing and repassing it that evening, Rowena had vainly ransacked her guileful brain for an excuse to invade it. Now as she left Mignon’s dressing room she decided to put on an intrepid front and pay Constance a call. Her large, black eyes danced with pure malice as she doubled a fist and pounded upon the closed door.

“Who is there?” came from within. The vigorous tattoo had startled Constance.

For answer Rowena simply swung open the door and stepped into the room. “I thought I’d pay you a call,” she announced with cool complacence.

Seated before a low make-up shelf on which reposed a mirror, Constance was engaged in readjusting her coiffure, which had become slightly loosened during the first act. Her blue eyes showed wondering surprise as she turned in her chair to face the intruder. From Jerry she had already heard angry protests against this mischievous girl. Quiet Constance now read fresh mischief in the intrusion. She resolved to treat her uninvited guest civilly. If possible she would try to keep her in the dressing room until the second act was called. Better that than allow her to further annoy the other girls. As she had no change of costume to make she was free to entertain her unbidden visitor.

“Sit down,” she evenly invited, neither cordial nor cold. “How do you like the operetta?”

Rather taken aback by this placid reception, Rowena dropped gracefully into a chair, her dark eyes fixed speculatively on her hostess. Shrugging her shoulders she gave a contemptuous little laugh as she answered: “Oh, these amateur productions are all alike. Some, of course, are more stupid than others.”

“Do you include the poor Princess among the more stupid?” asked Constance, smiling in spite of herself at this patent attempt to be disagreeable.

“I don’t include it in anything. I don’t even know what it’s all about. I only came to rehearsals and here to amuse myself. Sanford is the deadest town I was ever in and Sanford High School is a regular kindergarten. I suppose you know who I am, don’t you?” Rowena crested her auburn head a trifle.

“Yes. You are Miss Farnham.” Constance made reply in an enigmatic tone.

A threatening sparkle leaped to the other’s eyes. She was beginning to resent Constance’s quiet attitude. “If you knew who I was, why didn’t you speak to me at the first rehearsal?” she sharply launched.

“I merely knew you by sight. There are many girls in Sanford High whom I do not know personally.”

“But I’m different,” pursued Rowena. “My father is very rich and I can have whatever I like. You must know that. You ought to associate with girls of your own class. Your aunt has lots of money and can give you social position. That Geraldine Macy is the only rich girl you ever go with. All the others are just middle class. You’re foolish to waste your time on Marjorie – ”

Constance had received Rowena’s first words with secret amusement. As she continued to listen her inward smile changed to outward, rather. At mention of Marjorie her self-imposed placidity flew to the winds. “Kindly leave my dressing room,” she ordered, her voice shaking with indignation. “Marjorie Dean is my dearest friend. No one can belittle her to me. Least of all, you.” Constance had slowly risen, her blue eyes dark with the injury to one she loved.

“I thought that would bring you to life,” laughed Rowena, making no move to rise. As she sat there, the light playing on her ruddy hair, her black eyes agleam with tantalizing mirth, Constance could not but wonder at her tigerish beauty. To quote Muriel, she did resemble “a big, striped tiger.”

Without answering, Constance moved to the door and opened it. She was about to step into the corridor when Rowena sprang forward and clutched her by the arm. “You milk-and-water baby, do you think – ” She did not finish. As Constance stepped over the threshold she came almost into collision with Lawrence Armitage. His keen glance immediately took in the situation. He saw Rowena’s arm drop to her side. Brushing past Constance like a whirlwind, she gained the shelter of Mignon’s dressing room and disappeared.

“Hurry. You’ll miss your cue. I didn’t see you in the wings and came to warn you. Run along. I’ll see you later,” uttered Laurie rapidly. His words sent Constance moving rapidly toward the stairway. His lips tightened as he watched her disappear. For a moment he stood still, then, turning, took the same direction.

“Just a moment, Miss La Salle.” Seeking the stairway at the close of the second act, Mignon was halted by a troubled young man. “I don’t wish to be disagreeable, but – Miss Farnham must either remain in your dressing room during the third act or go out in the audience. I am not blaming you. You’ve sung your part splendidly to-night and I appreciate your effort. Will you help me in this? We don’t wish anything to occur to spoil the rest of the operetta. I am sure you understand.” Appeal looked out from his deeply blue eyes.

“Of course I’ll help you.” Mignon experienced a sudden thrill of triumph. Lawrence Armitage was actually asking her to do him a favor. Valiance rose within her. She quite forgot her dread of Rowena’s bluster. Flashing him her most fascinating smile, she held out her hand in token of good faith. Inwardly she was hoping that Constance might happen along to witness the tableau. Laurie clasped it lightly. He was not in the least impressed. “Thank you.” He wheeled abruptly and turned away.

Mignon ran lightly down the stairs and to her dressing room. Inspired by the recent interview, she promptly accosted the ubiquitous Rowena, as she lounged lazily in a chair. “You mustn’t go out of the dressing room or upstairs again until the operetta is over,” she dictated. “Laurie doesn’t want you to. He just spoke to me about it. He has allowed you a lot of liberty already, so I think you’d better do as he says. It won’t be long now until – ”

“So Laurie thinks he can order me about, does he?” Rowena sprang to her feet in a rage. “That for Laurie!” She snapped contemptuous fingers. “This is your work. You’ve been talking about me to him. But you’ll be sorry. I know a way – ”

Her mood swiftly changing she threw back her head and laughed. Resuming her chair she sat silently eyeing Mignon with a mirthful malevolence that sent a shiver of apprehension up and down the French girl’s spine. Rowena had undoubtedly been inspired with an idea that boded no good to her. As she dressed for the third act she cast more than one nervous glance at the smiling figure of insolence in the chair.

Not a word further had been exchanged between the two when the third act was called. Mignon half expected to see Rowena rise and follow her up the stairs, there to create a scene with Laurie that would delay the rise of the curtain. Nothing of the kind occurred, however, and the last act began and went on to a triumphant end.

After the curtain had been rung down on the final tableau, she made a dash for the stairs to encounter Rowena ascending them. She had already donned her evening cape and scarf. At sight of Mignon she called out in the careless, good-humored fashion she could assume at will: “Hurry up. I’m going on out to the limousine. I need a breath of fresh air.”

Partially convinced that Rowena had recovered from her fit of temper, Mignon gladly hastened to do her bidding. It was not until she began to look about for her high-laced boots that she changed her mind concerning her companion. They were nowhere to be seen. “Rowena has hidden them, just to be aggravating!” she exclaimed angrily. “That was her revenge. But I’ll find them.”

After a frantic ten-minutes’ search she managed to locate them, tucked into either sleeve of the long fur coat she had worn. Thankful to find them, she laced them in a hurry and proceeded to dress with all speed. A repeated receding of footsteps and gay voices from the direction of the stairway warned her that the dressing rooms were being rapidly deserted. Those who had come to Riverview by railway had only a short time after the performance in which to catch the last train for the night.

Taking the stairs, two at a time, Mignon made a rush for the stage door and on out into the cold, starlit night. The first thing she noted was a large part of the cast hurriedly boarding a street car for the station. But where was the Farnham limousine and Rowena? Where was the little line of automobiles she had seen parked along the street when she entered the theatre? Only one now remained, almost a block farther up the street. Her heart beat thankfully as she observed it. It looked like the Farnham limousine. It was just like Rowena to thus draw away a little distance in order to scare her into thinking she had been left behind.

Racing toward it she saw that the chauffeur was engaged in examining one of its tires. She heard a cheery voice call out, “All right, Captain,” and her knees grew weak. The voice did not sound like that of James, the Farnhams’ chauffeur. Hoping against hope she came abreast of it. Then her elfin eyes grew wide with despair. It was not the Farnhams’ car. It belonged to none other than the Deans.

Heartsick, she was about to turn away when a fresh young voice called out, “Mignon La Salle!” Forgetting everything except that she was in difficulties, she halted and managed to articulate, “Have you seen Miss Farnham’s car?”

“Why, no,” came the wondering reply. “Have you missed her?”

“I saw her go by in a limousine,” stated Constance Stevens, from the tonneau of the Deans’ car. “She was driving and the chauffeur was sitting beside her.”

A belated light now dawned upon Mignon. She understood that this was the fruition of Rowena’s threat. She had purposely run off and left her, knowing that she could not hope to catch the last train.

In the dark of the tonneau, Constance gave Marjorie’s hand a quick pressure. Its instant return signified that her chum understood. Without hesitation she called to the tragic little figure on the sidewalk, “We’ll take you home, Mignon. It’s lucky that General stopped to examine that tire.” Then to her father, “This is Mignon La Salle, Father. You know her, Mother.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Dean bowed in reserved fashion. “Get into the tonneau with the girls, Miss La Salle. We will see that you arrive safely at your own door.”

The unexpected courtesy very nearly robbed the stranded girl of speech. Stammering her thanks, Mignon climbed ruefully into the tonneau and seated herself by Marjorie. As the car began a loud purr, preparatory to starting, her outraged feelings overcame her and she burst into tears. “It was hateful in her,” she sobbed, “perfectly hateful.”

“It was,” agreed Marjorie positively. “But I wouldn’t cry about it. You are all right now.” Then with a view to cheering the weeper, she added: “You sang your part beautifully both nights, Mignon. That’s something to be glad of. This little trouble doesn’t really matter, since everything turned out well.”

“It’s nice in you to say it,” quavered Mignon. “But, oh, how I despise that hateful, hateful girl. I’ll never, never speak to her again as long as I live.”

Marjorie might easily have assured her that this was a wise decision. Instead, she prudently refrained from committing herself. Mignon’s mind continued to dwell on her wrongs. She cried and raged against her treacherous companion during most of the ride home. Constance and Marjorie were obliged to listen and administer judicious consolation. It did not appear to sink deep. Mignon was too self-centered to realize their generosity of spirit. When they left her at the La Salle’s gate she tried to put graciousness into her thanks, but her thoughts were too firmly fixed upon faithless Rowena and herself to appreciate the kindness she had received.

“For once Mignon had to swallow a dose of her own medicine,” commented Constance grimly, as the Deans’ car sped away toward their home, where Connie was to spend the night with Marjorie.

“She found it pretty hard to take,” mused Marjorie. “It’s a good thing, though. This will end Mignon’s friendship with Rowena, but it won’t change her one little bit. I don’t believe she’ll ever change.”

CHAPTER XXIII – A PECULIAR REQUEST

“Four letters for you, Lieutenant. Hunt them,” decreed Mrs. Dean, as Marjorie burst into the living room, her cheeks rosy from the nipping kisses of the winter air.

“Oh, I know where they are.” Jubilantly overturning the contents of her mother’s sewing basket, she triumphantly drew them forth. Without bothering to remove her wraps she plumped down at her mother’s feet to revel in her spoils.

“Here’s one from Mary. I’ll read that last. Here’s one from Harriet.” Opening it she read it through and passed it to her mother. “Harriet’s almost well again. Isn’t that good news? Why – ” she had opened the next – “it’s from Mignon; a little note of thanks. Oh, Captain!” she stared hard at the note. “I’ve discovered something. Mignon’s not the horrid Observer. See. The writing and paper and all are quite different. I’m sure she isn’t. She’d never ask anyone else to write such letters. It’s not her way.”

“Then that is good news, too,” smiled Mrs. Dean. “I am also glad to know it. It is dreadful to misjudge anyone.”

“I know that. I wish I knew who the Observer was, too.” Marjorie sighed and took up the next letter. As she read it she laughed outright. “It’s from General, the old dear. Just listen:

“Esteemed Lieutenant:

“Head up, forward march to the downtown barracks. Report for stern duty at 4:30 to-morrow (Thursday) P. M. Your most military presence is requested to assist in conferring with an official committee in a matter of great importance to the parties concerned. Failure to appear on time will be punished by court-martial. Be warned not to try to ambush your general in the living room to ascertain the facts beforehand. You will only be captured and sent to the guard house.

“Signed,“General Dean.”

“It’s a surprise,” nodded Marjorie. “I know it is. Very well, I’ll show him that I’m not a bit curious. I’ll tell him, though, that it’s not fair to threaten a soldier. Do you know what it’s about, Captain?”

“No; I am equally in the dark. I wouldn’t tell you if I knew,” Mrs. Dean answered teasingly.

“I wouldn’t let you,” retorted Marjorie. “I have to be loyal to my orders. Now I’ll read Mary’s letter and then go and answer it. If I don’t answer it now I might put it off.”

Laying the three notes aside, she busied herself with the long letter from Mary, reading it aloud with numerous exclamations and comments. True to her word, she made no mention to her father of his letter. Delighting to tease her, he hinted broadly concerning it, but failed to draw Marjorie into questioning him.

Nevertheless, it was a most curious young woman who entered his office the following afternoon at the exact moment of appointment. Her curiosity was lost in wide-eyed amazement as she saw that he was not alone. Seated in a chair beside his desk was a stout, dark man of middle age, whose restless, black eyes and small, dark mustache bespoke the foreigner. But this was not the cause of her astonishment. It lay in the fact that the man was Mignon La Salle’s father. Both men rose as she entered, Mr. La Salle bowing to her in the graceful fashion of the Frenchman.

“Sit here, Lieutenant. Mr. La Salle wishes to talk with you. He is kind enough to allow me to be present at the conference.”

“Miss Marjorie, I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before to-day. It is a very great pleasure. I have already thanked your father for his kindness to my daughter several evenings since. Now I must thank you, too. But I wish also to ask a far greater favor. My daughter, Mignon,” he paused as though at a loss to proceed, “is a somewhat peculiar girl. For many years she has had no mother.” He sighed, then continuing, “I wish her to be all that is good and fine. But I am a busy man. I cannot take time to be with her as I would desire. From my friend Harold Macy I have heard many pleasant things of you and your friends. So I have thought that it might be well to ask you if you – ” Again he paused, his black eyes riveted on Marjorie, “if you will take an interest in my daughter, so that I may feel that her associates are of the best.

“I regret greatly her friendship with Miss Farnham. But that is past. She has told me all, and I have forbidden their further intimacy. Perhaps you are already the friend of my Mignon? If so, it is, indeed, well. If not, may I hope that you will soon become such, indeed?” There was a trace of pleading in his carefully enunciated speech with its slightly foreign accent.