Kitabı oku: «Marjorie Dean, High School Junior», sayfa 12
CHAPTER XXV – A STRENUOUS HIKE TO A TRYING ENGAGEMENT
Everybody knows the trite saying: “It never rains but that it pours.” The disasters of the following week seemed quite in accord with it. Muriel’s spectacular slide down the ice steps brought her a broken collarbone. The three anxious girls had awaited news of Muriel at Marjorie’s home had hardly taken their leave when the ring of the postman brought her fresh misery. Little knowing what he did, that patient individual handed Marjorie a letter which filled her with angry consternation. Why in the world had the hated Observer come to life again at such a time?
Without waiting to read the unwelcome epistle in her Captain’s presence, Marjorie ripped open the envelope with a savage hand. This time the unknown was detestably brief, writing merely:
“Miss Dean:
“I hope you lose the game next Saturday. You are more of a snob than ever. Defeat will do you good. Prepare to meet it.
“The Observer.”
“Oh!” Marjorie dashed the offending letter to the floor. Muriel’s accident was bad enough. It had not needed this to complete her dejection. Recapturing the spiteful message she was about to tear it into bits. On second reflection she decided to keep it and add it to her obnoxious collection. Something whispered to her that the identity of the tormenting Observer would yet be revealed to her.
Facing the lamentable knowledge that Muriel must be counted out of the coming contest, Harriet replaced her. This in itself provided a grain of comfort. Harriet was a skilful player and would work for the success of the team with all her energy. The other four players congratulated themselves on thus having such able support. Due to Muriel’s absence, Marjorie had been asked to assume temporary captainship. Her mind now at ease by reason of Harriet’s good work, she gave her most conscientious attention to practice.
Matters skimmed along with commendable smoothness until the Wednesday before the game. Then she encountered a fresh set-back. Word came to her that Susan Atwell had succumbed to the dreaded tonsilitis that all through the winter had been going its deadly round in Sanford. On receipt of the news she recalled that for the past two days Susan had complained of sore throat. She had given it no serious thought, however. Her own throat had also troubled her a trifle since that stormy day when Muriel had come to grief. There was but one thing to do. Put Lucy Warner in Susan’s position. Her heart almost skipped a beat as she faced the fact that Lucy, too, had been absent from school for over a week. Someone had said that Lucy was also ill. Marjorie reproached herself for not having inquired more closely about the peculiar green-eyed junior. “I ought to have gone to see her,” she reflected. “I’ll go to-night. Perhaps she is almost well by this time, and can come back to school in time for the game. If she can’t, then I’d better ask Mignon to play in Susan’s place.”
School over for the day she accosted Jerry and Irma with, “I can only walk as far as the corner with you to-night. I’m going to see Lucy Warner. She’s been sick for over a week. Did you ever hear of such bad luck as the team has been having lately? I feel so discouraged and tired out. I don’t believe I’ll try for the team next year.” Marjorie’s usually sprightliness was entirely missing. Her voice had taken on a weary tone and her brown eyes had lost their pretty sparkle.
“You’d better go straight home and take care of yourself,” gruffly advised Jerry, “or you won’t be fit to play on the team Saturday.”
“Oh, I’m all right.” Marjorie made an attempt to look cheerful. “I’m not feeling ill. My throat is a little bit sore. I caught cold that day Muriel fell down the steps. But it’s nothing serious. I shall go to bed at eight o’clock to-night and have a long sleep. I’m just tired; not sick. I must leave you here. Good-bye. See you to-morrow.” Nodding brightly she left the two and turned down a side street.
“See us to-morrow,” sniffed Jerry. “Humph! I doubt it, unless we go to her house. She’s about half sick now. It’s the first time I ever saw her look that way. She’s so brave, though. She’d fight to keep up if she were dying.”
Meanwhile, as she plodded down the snowy street on her errand of mercy, Marjorie was, indeed, fighting to make herself believe that she was merely a little tired. Despite her languor, generosity prompted her to stop in passing a fruit store and purchase an attractive basket filled with various fruits likely to tempt the appetite of a sick person. She wondered if Lucy would resent the offering. She was such a queer, self-contained little creature.
“What a dingy house!” was her thought, as she floundered her way through a stretch of deep snow to Lucy’s unpretentious home. Detached from its neighbors, it stood unfenced, facing a bit of field, which the small boys of Sanford used in summer as a ball ground. It was across this field that Marjorie was obliged to wend a course made difficult by a week’s fall of snow that blanketed it. An irregular path made by the passing and repassing of someone’s feet led up to the door. It appeared that the Warners were either too busy or else unable to clear their walk.
Finding no bell, Marjorie removed her glove and knocked on the weather-stained front door. It was opened by a frail little woman with a white, tired face and faded blue eyes. She stared in amazement at the trim, fur-coated girl before her, whose attractive appearance betokened affluence. “How do you do?” she greeted in evident embarrassment.
“Good afternoon. Are you Mrs. Warner?” Marjorie asked brightly. “I have come to see Lucy. How is she to-day? I am Marjorie Dean.”
“Oh, are you Miss Dean? I mailed a letter she wrote you several days ago. Come in, please,” invited the woman cordially. “I am very glad to see you. I am sure Lucy will be. She is better but still in bed. Will you take off your wraps?”
“No, thank you. I can’t stay very long. I feel guilty at not coming to see her sooner. What is the trouble with her – tonsilitis? So many people in Sanford are having it.” Marjorie looked slightly mystified over Mrs. Warner’s reference to the letter. She had received no letter from Lucy. She decided, however, that she would ask Lucy.
“No; she was threatened with pneumonia, but managed to escape with a severe cold. I will take you to her. She is upstairs.”
Following Mrs. Warner up a narrow stairway that led up from a bare, cheerless sitting room, Marjorie was forced to contrast the dismal place with the Deans’ luxurious living room. Why was it, she sadly pondered, that she had been given so much and Lucy so little? The Warners’ home was even more poverty-stricken than the little gray house in which Constance Stevens had once lived. Then she had deplored that same contrast between herself and Constance.
“Miss Dean has come to see you, Lucy,” said Mrs. Warner. Marjorie had followed the woman into a plain little bedroom, equally bare and desolate.
“You!” Glimpsing Marjorie behind her mother, Lucy sat up in bed, her green eyes growing greener with horrified disapproval.
“Yes, I.” Marjorie flushed as she strove to answer playfully. That single unfriendly word of greeting had wounded her deeply. The very fact that, half sick herself, she had waded through the snow to call on Lucy gave her a fleeting sense of injury. She tried to hide it by quickly saying: “I must apologize for not visiting you sooner. Our team has had so many mishaps, I have been busy trying to keep things going. I brought you some fruit to cheer you up.”
“I will leave you girls to yourselves,” broke in Mrs. Warner. As she went downstairs she wondered at her daughter’s ungracious behavior to this lovely young friend. Lucy was such a strange child. Even she could not always fathom her odd ways.
“Why have you come to see me?” demanded Lucy, hostile and inhospitable. All the time her lambent green eyes remained fixed upon Marjorie.
“Why shouldn’t I come to see you?” Marjorie gave a nervous little laugh. Privately she wished she had not come. Embarrassment at the unfriendly reception drove the question of the letter from her mind.
“You never noticed me in school,” pursued Lucy relentlessly. “Why should you now?”
“You would never let me be friends with you,” was Marjorie’s honest retort. “I’ve tried ever so many times. I have always admired you. You are so bright and make such brilliant recitations.”
“What does that matter when one is poor and always out of things?” came the bitter question.
“Oh, being poor doesn’t count. It’s the real you that makes the difference. When I was a little girl we were quite poor. We aren’t rich now; just in comfortable circumstances. If I chose my friends for their money I’d be a very contemptible person. You mustn’t look at matters in that light. It’s wrong. It shuts you away from all the best things in life; like love and friendship and contentment. I wish you had said this to me long ago. Then we would have understood each other and been friends.”
“I can never be your friend,” stated the girl solemnly.
“Why not?” Marjorie’s eyes widened. “Perhaps I ought not to ask you that. It sounded conceited. I can’t blame you if you don’t like me. There are many persons I can’t like, either. Sometimes I try to like them, but I seldom succeed,” she made frank admission.
“You are a puzzling girl,” asserted Lucy, her green eyes wavering under Marjorie’s sweetly naïve confession. “Either you are very deceitful, or else I have made a terrible mistake.” She suddenly lay back in bed, half hiding her brown head in the pillow.
“I would rather think that you had made a mistake.” The rose in Marjorie’s cheeks deepened. “I try never to be deceitful.”
Lucy did not reply, but buried her face deeper in the pillow. An oppressive silence ensued, during which Marjorie racked her brain as to what she had best say next. What ailed Lucy? She was even queerer than Marjorie had supposed.
With a convulsive jerk Lucy suddenly sat upright. Marjorie was relieved to observe no indication of tears in the probing green eyes. She had feared Lucy might be crying. Why she should cry was a mystery, however.
“If you had made a mistake about someone and then done a perfectly dreadful thing and afterward found out that it was all a mistake, what would you do?” Lucy queried with nervous intensity.
“I – that’s a hard question to answer. It would depend a good deal on what I had done and who the person was.”
“But if the person didn’t know that it was you who did it, would you tell them?” continued Lucy.
“If I had hurt them very much, I think my conscience would torment me until I did,” Marjorie said slowly. “It would be hard, of course, but it would be exactly what I deserved. But why do you ask me such strange things?”
“Because I must know. I’ve done something wrong and I’ve got to face it. I’ve just found out that I have a very lively conscience. What you said is true. I deserve to suffer. I am the Observer.” Lucy dropped back on her pillow, her long, black lashes veiling her peculiarly colored eyes.
Undiluted amazement tied Marjorie’s tongue. Staring at the pitifully white, small face against the pillow, she came into a flashing, emotional knowledge of the embittered spirit that had prompted the writing of those vexatious letters. “You poor little thing!” she cried out compassionately. The next instant her soft hands held one of Lucy’s in a caressing clasp.
Lucy’s heavy lids lifted. “I don’t wonder your friends love you,” she said somberly. Her free hand came to rest lightly on Marjorie’s arm. “I know now that I could have been your friend, too.”
“But you shall be from this minute on,” Marjorie replied, her pretty face divinely tender. “You’ve proved your right to be. It was brave in you to tell me. If you hadn’t been the right sort of girl you might have decided to like me and kept what you told me to yourself. I would never have known the difference. I am glad that I do know. It takes away the shadow. I understand that you must have suffered a great deal. I blame myself, too. I’m afraid I’ve thought too much about my own pleasure and seemed snobbish.”
“I wouldn’t have done it, only one Sunday when you were walking along with that Miss Macy and that girl who used to live at your house, I met you and you didn’t speak to me. All three of you were dressed beautifully. It made me feel so bad. I was wearing an old gray suit, and I thought you cut me on account of my clothes. I know now that I was wrong. That was the beginning of the mistake. Then when you girls had those expensive basket ball suits made, I thought you chose them just to be mean to me. Of course, I didn’t expect to be invited to your parties, but it hurt me to be passed by all the time in school.”
“I never saw you that day, and I’m sure we never thought about how it might look to others when we ordered our suits. You’ve taught me a lesson, Lucy. One ought to be made careful about such things in a large school. Someone is sure to be made unhappy. Now we must put all the bad things away for good and think only of the nice ones. When you get well you are going to have some good times with me. My friends will like you, too. No one must ever know about – well, about the mistake.”
But Lucy could not thus easily take things for granted. Remorse had set in and she felt that she ought to be punished for her fault. After considerable cheerful persuasion, Marjorie brought her into an easier frame of mind. When finally she said good-bye she left behind her a most humble Observer who had given her word thereafter to observe life from a happier angle.
Once away from the house a feeling of heavy lassitude overwhelmed the patient Lieutenant. It had been a strenuous hike to a trying engagement. Her head swam dizzily as she stumbled through the drifted field to better walking. Her wet shoes and stockings added to her misery. How her cheeks burned and how dreadfully her throat ached! Was Jerry’s prediction about to be fulfilled? Was she only tired out, or had actual sickness descended upon her just when she needed most to be well?
CHAPTER XXVI – “TURN ABOUT IS FAIR PLAY”
“What did I tell you yesterday?” saluted Jerry Macy, the instant she found opportunity to address Irma Linton the next morning. “Marjorie’s sick. Her mother telephoned me before I started for school. She came from Lucy Warner’s yesterday so sick she couldn’t see straight. Her mother put her to bed and sent for the doctor. She has tonsilitis. Isn’t that hard luck?”
“I should say so. Poor Marjorie. I was afraid of that yesterday. You know she said her throat was sore.” Irma looked unutterably sympathetic. “And the game on Saturday, too. But it can’t be played with Marjorie, Muriel and Susan all laid up. That leaves only Rita, Daisy and Harriet on the team.”
“The sophomores will have to call it off,” decreed Jerry. “It’s only fair. The juniors did that very thing when two of the sophs were sick.”
“You’d better see Ellen this noon or before, if you can, and tell her,” Irma advised. “Then she can break it to the sophs to-day.”
“I’m going to wait for her in the senior locker room this noon,” nodded Jerry. “Then she can post a notice at once. Now I must beat it for Cæsar recitation. I wished he’d been killed in his first battle. It would have saved me a good deal of bother.” Jerry’s jolly chuckle belied her vengeful comment on the valorous general.
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Ellen when Jerry broke the news to her. “That is too bad. Certainly the game will have to be postponed. I’ll write a notice instantly asking the sophs to meet me in the gym at four this afternoon. I must call up on the ’phone and inquire for Marjorie. Dear little girl, I wish I could do a great deal more for her. Thank you for telling me, Jerry.” Ellen hurried off to write and then post the notice before going home to luncheon. Her lips wore a quizzical smile. She wondered what the sophomore team would say when she told them.
She had just finished tucking it into the bulletin board when Nellie Simmons, a member of the sophomore team, paused curiously to read it. The very fact that it came from Ellen’s hands indicated basket ball news. “Hmm!” she ejaculated as she took in its contents. “What’s the matter now?”
“I’ll tell you at four o’clock,” Ellen flashed back. With a slight lift of her shoulders, she walked away. Nellie’s tone had verged on the insolent. She had hardly disappeared when Nellie faced about and hurried toward the sophomore locker room, bumping smartly against Rowena Farnham, who was in the act of leaving it.
“Look out!” cried Rowena. “What are you trying to do? I’m not made of iron.”
“Oh, Rowena, I was hurrying to find you!” exclaimed Nellie. “Ellen Seymour just posted a notice on the bulletin board for the team to meet her in the gym at four o’clock. I think I know what it’s about. Marjorie Dean is sick. I heard Jerry Macy tell Esther Lind. You know what that means to the junior team, with two others away from it. I’m sure Ellen’s going to ask us to postpone the game.”
“I’ll forgive you for almost knocking me down,” laughed Rowena, her black eyes glowing. “So Miss Seymour thinks we will postpone the game to please her and that goody-goody Dean girl. I’ll see that she gets a surprise. Lucky you came to me. I can fix things before I go home to luncheon. I’m going to have a talk with Miss Davis.”
Leaving Nellie plunged in admiration at her daring tactics, Rowena sped up the basement stairs and down the corridor toward Miss Davis’s tiny office. “How are you, Miss Davis?” was her offhand greeting. “I’ve come to you for help.”
Miss Davis viewed her visitor with mild disapproval. “I don’t care to implicate myself in any more of your tangles, Rowena,” she declared firmly.
“Oh, this isn’t entirely my affair. It’s about basket ball, though. That Dean girl is sick and Miss Seymour is going to ask us to postpone the game just on her account. Of course, we’ll say ‘no,’ but Miss Seymour won’t mind that unless you stand by us. It’s pure favoritism. Miss Harding and Miss Atwell are sick, too. Even so, there are three of the team left. If you say the game must go on, it will give poor Mignon a chance to sub in the Dean girl’s place. That Esther Lind played on the sophomore team last year. She could fill the other position and we could have the game. Miss Seymour knows that, but she won’t pay any attention to it. Mignon ought to have been chosen in the first place. You owe it to her to do this for her. Besides, it will give you a good chance to even things with the Seymour-Dean combination.”
“I don’t like your tone, Rowena. It’s hardly respectful. As a teacher I have no desire to ‘even things,’ as you express it.” Miss Davis’s censure did not ring true. She knew that this domineering girl had no illusions concerning her dignity of position.
Rowena merely smiled in the bold, cheerful fashion that she always adopted and which passed for real good humor. She did not take Miss Davis at her word. “Think it over,” she advised. “You know you detest favoritism.” She was well aware that Miss Davis deplored it, only to practise it as regarded herself and Mignon. Mignon in particular had always ranked high in her favor.
To have heard Rowena thus pleading her cause would have astonished Mignon not a little. It was by this very means that Rowena proposed to seek her and win back the French girl’s allegiance. Without her companionship, school had become very tame for lawless Rowena.
“When is this meeting to take place?” asked Miss Davis with well-simulated indifference.
“At four o’clock.” Rowena thrilled with triumph. She knew she had gained her point.
“I may attend it,” was the teacher’s vague promise.
“Thank you. I hope for Mignon’s sake you’ll be there.” With this sly reminder Rowena set off, determining to waylay Mignon on her walk back from luncheon. Not troubling to go home that noon, Rowena swallowed a hasty luncheon at a nearby delicatessen shop and posted herself at a corner, which Mignon was due to pass.
“Wait a minute, Mignon,” she hailed, as the latter was about to pass her by with a haughty toss of her head. “You must listen to me. I’ve just fixed it for you to play on the junior team Saturday.”
Astounded by this remarkable statement, Mignon halted. Rowena had guessed that she would. “I don’t understand you,” she said haughtily.
“Yes, you do,” assured Rowena blithely. “Three of the juniors are sick. I just asked Miss Davis to let you help out. She is going to see Miss Seymour about it this afternoon. All you have to do is to keep still until you’re asked to play, then say ‘yes.’ Now do you believe I’m your friend?” she concluded in triumph.
Mignon’s inimitable shrug went into play. “You are very kind,” she returned with a trace of sarcasm. “It’s about time you did something to make up for all the trouble you caused me.”
“That’s just it.” Rowena clutched at this providential straw, which Mignon had unwittingly cast to her. “I am trying to make it up to you. I won’t bother you any more now. But I hope – ” she paused significantly.
“You may walk to school with me,” graciously permitted Mignon. The old fascination of Rowena’s lawlessness was beginning to steal over her.
“Thank you.” Rowena spoke humbly. Inwardly she was jubilant. She was obliged to endure these stupid persons, but they were all her pawns, willed to move about at her dictation.
After she had left Rowena in the corridor, Mignon indulged in sober speculation. There was more to the affair than appeared on the surface. Formerly she would have entered into it with avidity. Now she was bound to respect her father’s mandate or be packed off to a convent school. She alone knew positively that recent association with Marjorie and her chums had not changed her. But she must make a pretense at keeping up an appearance of amiable docility. Rowena’s words still sounded in her ears like a clarion call to battle. But she was resolved to do nothing rash. She would wait and see before accepting the chance to play on the junior team. It was lucky that she need not lend her presence to the meeting that afternoon.
When at four o’clock Ellen Seymour put the matter of postponement to five impassive-faced girls, she was not greatly surprised to listen to their unanimous refusal to consider the proposal. One and all they stolidly set themselves against it.
“You forget that the juniors treated you very nicely when your team met with misfortune,” reminded Ellen gravely. She had vowed within herself that she would not lose her temper.
This reminder brought stubborn replies of, “That was different,” and “They have plenty of equally good players to draw from.”
In the midst of the discussion, Miss Davis appeared on the scene. Ellen understood only too well what that meant. “What seems to be the matter here?” she asked. “Are you discussing the question of postponing the game?”
Rowena cast a sidelong glance of triumph toward Nellie Simmons, which said: “What did I tell you?”
“We are,” was Ellen’s crisp return. “The game must be postponed.”
It was an unlucky speech on Ellen’s part. Miss Davis had entered the gymnasium only half decided upon championing Rowena’s cause. The cool decision in the senior’s tones angered her. “I hardly think that will be necessary,” she retorted. “Three of the juniors are ready to play. Miss La Salle and Miss Lind can substitute for the others. The game will go forward on Saturday.”
“That is absolutely unfair,” cried Ellen. “The juniors were extremely lenient with – ”
“That will do.” Miss Davis held up an authoritative hand. “Another word and I will report you to Miss Archer. Then there will be no game on Saturday.”
Ellen did not answer this threat. Her head erect, color high, she walked from the gymnasium and straight to Miss Archer’s office. She had not threatened. She intended to act and act quickly.
“Miss Archer, I have something important to say to you,” she burst forth on entering the principal’s office.
“Sit down, Ellen. I am sure it must be. Don’t tell me it is basket ball!” Miss Archer’s lips tightened.
“But it is.” Impetuously, Ellen poured forth her story. When she had finished, Miss Archer’s face was not good to see.
“I’ll attend to this, Ellen. You did right to come to me. There will be no game on Saturday.”
The following morning five girls received a summons to the principal’s office that put fear into their hearts. When, one by one, they appeared, she motioned them to be seated until the last one had completed the line on the oak bench. Swinging in her chair, she faced them with: “There is an old saying, girls, ‘Turn about is fair play.’ Since you seem to have forgotten it, I am forced to remind you. I understand that you asked the juniors to postpone the first basket ball game of the season, due to the fact that your team was temporarily incapacitated. They did so. That in itself points to an adherence to fair play. Very well. Now there comes a time when the situation reverses itself. Having proved themselves honorable, the juniors have called for a like demonstration of honor on the part of the sophomores. You know best what has happened. You have shown yourselves not only grossly ungrateful, but unfit to be trusted. No one enjoys dealing with ingrates. One understands precisely what one may expect from such persons.
“During the year I have not been pleased with the various reports which have been brought to me concerning sophomore and junior basket ball; particularly sophomore basket ball. It is not long since I was obliged to interfere with sophomore methods. At that time I stated that a repetition of such unfair tactics would result in the stoppage of the game for the rest of the year. I now declare the sophomore and junior teams disbanded. There will be no more games between them this year. I have just one thing further to say. It is unfortunate that the innocent should be obliged to suffer with the guilty. You are dismissed.”
A wavering breath of dismay passed along the row of girls as Miss Archer pronounced sentence upon them. Their own treachery had proved a boomerang. Dejection laid heavy hand upon four of them, as with downcast eyes they rose and quitted the place of judgment. But the fifth member of the disbanded team was not thus so easily dismissed. Far from disheartened, Rowena Farnham sprang forward, hands clenched at her sides, her face an angry flame.
“Who are you that you dare talk of unfairness?” In her devouring rage she fairly screamed the question. “You have disbanded the team just to please that smug-faced, priggish Marjorie Dean. You are not fit to have charge over a school of girls. I am ashamed to be under the same roof with you. I shall ask my father – ”
“It strikes me that it is I who should inform your father of your outrageous behavior to me,” interrupted Miss Archer in a stern voice. “I hardly believe that he would countenance such impudence on your part to one in authority over you. You may go home and remain away from school until I send for you. I shall insist on an interview with your father at the earliest possible moment in order to decide what is to be done with you.”
“You won’t have to insist on seeing him,” sneered Rowena. “He will call on you this afternoon. My father won’t see me abused by you. He will use his influence with the Board of Education. Then you won’t be principal of Sanford High School.” With this furious prediction of downfall Rowena flung herself out of the office, confident that she had delivered a telling thrust. Not daring to return to the study hall she sped to the locker room, hastily seized her wraps and departed for her father’s office in high dudgeon.
The brilliantly-colored account of Miss Archer’s misdeeds which she poured into the ears of her too-credulous father sent him on the trail of the offending principal with fury in his eye. Less than an hour after Rowena had made her sensational exit, a very tall, red-haired, red-faced man stalked into Miss Archer’s office with the air of a blood-thirsty warrior.
“Madam,” he thundered, omitting polite preliminaries, “I am Mr. Farnham and I wish you to understand most emphatically that you cannot criticize my methods of bringing up my daughter. Though she may need occasional mild discipline it is extreme bad taste in you to cast unjust reflections upon her parents.”
“I was not aware that I had done so.” Miss Archer had risen to confront the slandered (?) parent. She met his angry gaze unflinchingly. “I had intended to send for you, however. Now that you are here we may as well settle matters at once. Your daughter – ”
“My daughter has been shamefully abused,” cut in Mr. Farnham majestically. “I regret that I ever allowed her to enter a public school. I shall remove her at once from it. The contaminating influence – ”
It was Miss Archer’s turn to interrupt in clear, cutting speech. “Allow me to amend your last statement to her contaminating influence. Your daughter is a trouble-maker. I have borne very patiently with her. I cannot regret your decision to remove her from Sanford High School. It simplifies matters immeasurably.”
Miss Archer’s quiet, but intense utterance sent an unbidden thrill of consternation over the irate man. His blustering manner had not intimidated this regal, calm-featured woman. He experienced a sudden sense of defeat. Fearful lest he might reveal it, he cut his call short with, “My daughter will not return to school. Good morning.”
Miss Archer bowed him out, feeling sorry rather than displeased with the big, blustering man whom fatherly love had blinded to his daughter’s faults. She wondered when, if ever, his eyes would be opened. Under what circumstances would he awaken to full knowledge of the real Rowena?
