Chase Josephine - Marjorie Dean, High School Senior

“Marjorie! Marjorie Dean!” The black-eyed girl in the runabout accompanied her high-pitched call by a gradual slowing down of the smart little car she was driving.

The dainty, white-gowned figure on the sidewalk tilted a white parasol over one shoulder and turned a pair of startled brown eyes in the direction of the voice. “Why, Mignon, I didn’t know you were home from Severn Beach! How do you do?” Advancing to the runabout, Marjorie Dean stretched forth a white-gloved hand.

“I’ve been in Sanford since Wednesday,” returned Mignon. Leaning out of the runabout, she lightly clasped the proffered fingers. “Get into my car and I’ll take you wherever you want to go. I’m glad I saw you. It’s been deadly dull in Sanford with most of the girls still away.” Her elfish eyes noting that Marjorie’s smart attire betokened a possible luncheon or tea, Mignon was consumed with a lively curiosity to learn the pretty senior’s destination. “You look as though you were going to an afternoon tea,” she continued artfully. “Say where and I’ll ride you there.”

“Thank you, but I don’t believe I’ll ride. I was out in the car all morning with General. It’s so lovely this afternoon I’d rather walk. I’m not bound for a tea, though. I am going to make a call.”

Mignon’s dark brows drew together in a faint frown. “Oh, pshaw!” she exclaimed. “Why not ride? Unless you don’t wish me to know where you are going?” she added suspiciously.

“I never thought of that,” was Marjorie’s honest protest. Yet now that Mignon had mentioned it, it struck Marjorie rather forcibly that she was not specially anxious to reveal her destination. “I am going to call on Miss Archer,” she informed her, making an effort to be casual.

“Then I’ll take you there. I should like to see her, too,” announced Mignon calmly. She had decided that to call on the principal in Marjorie’s company would be of great advantage to her. “Come on,” she urged.

Too well-bred to exhibit pointed reluctance, Marjorie resigned herself to the inevitable and stepped into the runabout. Her visit to Miss Archer was of a somewhat personal nature. Still, she reflected, it was nothing very secret, after all. Should her mission prove successful, Mignon would, under any circumstances, soon learn the result.

“How do you know Miss Archer will be at home?” inquired Mignon as she drove slowly down the shady avenue. “I thought she was still in the West.”

“She came home only yesterday. I telephoned her,” returned Marjorie. “This call of mine is really more like a business appointment. I would rather have waited until she had her house fairly opened again, but I couldn’t very well. It might be too late.”

“Oh!” Mignon was burning to demand further information, but the finality in Marjorie’s tones warned her to go slowly. Between herself and the latter there remained always a curious wall of reserve created by their mental attitude toward each other. Mignon did not believe that Marjorie’s friendliness toward herself was sincere. On the other hand, Marjorie sensed the note of unbelief. She felt that Mignon did not trust her and it made her uncomfortable when in the French girl’s presence.

It was a comparatively short ride to the spacious, old-fashioned house, set in the midst of giant elms, which the last three generations of Archers had called home. Of them all Miss Archer and an elder sister alone remained. The two women had arrived in Sanford from a visit to Western relatives on the previous day. Even in that short time the big house had taken on an air of new life. The shuttered windows and boarded-up doors were now open and a hospitable array of comfortable wicker and willow chairs on the wide veranda proclaimed that someone was at home.

“We’ll leave the runabout here,” decreed Mignon, as they brought up outside the tall iron gate. She alighted from it in her lithe, cat-like manner, her restless eyes fixed on the house. Quite forgetting that she was merely a second party to the call, Mignon motioned impatiently for Marjorie to follow and set off up the walk in her most imposing manner. Divided between amusement and vexation, Marjorie gave a little sigh and stepped quickly after the French girl.

By the time she had reached the veranda, Mignon had rung the door bell. A moment and it was answered by a young woman whose blue bungalow apron and dust cap marked her as maid of all work. “Good afternoon,” she said politely. To Marjorie she appeared a trifle embarrassed. “She must be a new maid,” was her first thought. “I wonder if Hulda has left the Archers.” As a frequent guest at Miss Archer’s, Marjorie had always delighted in Hulda, the good-natured Swedish maid. Impulsively she asked with a winning smile, “Isn’t Hulda here any more?”

“Hulda!” The young woman stared curiously at Marjorie, then replied quickly. “She will be here next week. I am trying to take her place until she comes.” A faint flickering smile touched the corners of her red lips as she said this.

“Kindly tell Miss Archer that Miss La Salle and Miss Dean are here” broke in Mignon haughtily. She had already decided that, for a servant, this girl appeared to feel herself above her position. It was partially Marjorie’s fault. It was always a mistake to treat a servant as an equal.

The maid favored Mignon with another strange, inscrutable glance. “Miss La Salle and Miss Dean,” she repeated. “Please come into the drawing room. I will tell Miss Archer that you are here.” Politely ushering them into the long, cool drawing room, the maid obsequiously bowed them to seats and vanished.

“What a pretty girl,” was Marjorie’s first remark when they were left to themselves. “She had such lovely golden brown hair and big gray eyes.”

“I didn’t notice. All maids look alike to me,” shrugged Mignon. “I thought she was altogether too presuming for a servant.”

“I thought she was sweet,” came Marjorie’s earnest reply. She had taken an instantaneous liking to the new maid. “After all, we’re just human beings, you know, and free and equal. Why, Delia is as much a part of our home as I am.”

“It’s very unwise to give servants too much liberty,” disagreed Mignon loftily. “Every one of ours has to keep his or her place. I see to that. My father is quite apt to let them do as they please. It takes me to manage them.”

Marjorie felt a strong return of her ancient dislike for Mignon sweep over her. Quickly she conquered it, adroitly turning the conversation into a more pleasant channel. It was at least ten minutes before the maid reappeared in the wide curtained doorway. Announcing that Miss Archer would be with them directly, she nodded almost curtly and disappeared.

“Good afternoon, Marjorie. I am very glad to see you again,” was the principal’s cordial salutation as she entered the room. “How do you do, Mignon?” Although she gave the French girl her hand, there was an almost imperceptible reserve in her greeting. To her, Mignon’s call was as unexpected as her sudden decision to pay it had been to Marjorie. “You must excuse the unsettled appearance of things. We have not yet found time to take the covers off most of the furniture. When we left for the West, I sent Hulda off on a visit to her father and mother. She will not return until next week. Fortunately, my sister and I have Veronica to help us.”

“Veronica,” repeated Mignon. “That is a queer name for a maid, isn’t it?”

“‘What’s in a name?’” quoted Miss Archer lightly. There was a faint touch of amusement in her quiet tones that nettled Mignon. She concluded that, as she never had liked Miss Archer, she now merely liked her a trifle less.