CHAPTER I. – A LONELY LOOKOUT
“Oh, dear! I wish Jerry would come home! I want to see her! I’ve always missed her terribly during vacations, but this summer I’ve missed her more than ever. I’m simply starved for a sight of her dear jolly face! Here it is, the twenty-fourth of August, and no Jerry Jeremiah Geraldine Macy!”
Marjorie Dean had addressed this little series of wistful remarks to no one in particular. She stood at one of the long French windows of the living room, her nose flattened against the pane, little-girl fashion, watching a very wet outdoors. All morning, the rain had been beating down with a sullen persistency which Marjorie found distinctly disheartening. She was as near to having a case of the blues as was possible to one of her care-free, buoyant nature. Wet weather did not often interfere with her happiness. Given her particular girl friends within telephone call and she could discount a rainy day.
Today she was without that source of entertainment and consolation. None of her chums had returned to Sanford from their summer outings. Susan Atwell, Irma Linton, Muriel Harding, Constance Stevens, Jerry Macy – all were missing from the town into which Marjorie had come, a stranger, but of which she now was, to use her own expression, “a regular citizen.”
Marjorie’s thoughts were dwelling on her absent schoolmates as she pensively watched the rain. She wondered if, wherever they were, they were penned in by the rain too. It seemed rather queer to her that she should be the only one of the sextette of girls, who had founded the Lookout Club, to be spending the summer in Sanford. She was not a real Sanfordite by birth. With the exception of Constance Stevens, the others claimed Sanford as their native town.
Readers of the “Marjorie Dean High School Series” have already an acquaintance with Marjorie Dean, and have followed her course as a student at Sanford High School. They have seen her through both sad and happy days, the events of which have been chronicled in “Marjorie Dean, High School Freshman,” “Marjorie Dean, High School Sophomore,” “Marjorie Dean, High School Junior,” and “Marjorie Dean, High School Senior.”
“There goes that old mail carrier and he isn’t going to stop here!” This time Marjorie’s tones were not wistful. Their disgusted energy indicated her patent disappointment. Her red lips drooped in dejection as she saw the unfeeling object of her hopeful anticipation plod stolidly past the gate without so much as a glance at the mailbox at the foot of the driveway.
“Not one single solitary letter,” mourned the watcher. “Why doesn’t Jerry write?”
“When did you hear from Jerry last, Lieutenant?” Mrs. Dean had entered the room in time to hear Marjorie’s plaint.
“Oh, Captain, I’m so glad you came to the rescue! I was so lonely! You asked me when last I heard from Jerry. Why, it’s almost two weeks. She wrote me it was awfully hot at the beach and – Are you going to stay here awhile and talk to me, Captain?”
Marjorie interrupted herself with this question. Her downcast face had begun to brighten.
“If you are,” she continued, “I’ll run up to my house and get Jerry’s last letter. I’d love to read it to you.”
“I’ll oblige you by staying awhile.” Mrs. Dean sat down in her own particular wicker rocker, her eyes resting fondly on Marjorie.
“You’re a dear. Be back in a minute.” A rush of light feet on the stairs proclaimed that Marjorie had gone to her “house,” as she chose to call her pretty pink and white room, for her letter.
“I can’t find it,” presently announced a disappointed voice from above stairs. “Have you seen a square gray envelope with large writing on it anywhere in the living room, Captain?”
“I am looking straight at one now,” came the reassuring information. “You left it on the mantelpiece, Lieutenant.”
“Oh, thank you.” A moment and Marjorie was heard making a vigorous descent of the stairs.
“I came down stairs at a positive gallop,” she said lightly, as she crossed the room and secured her letter. “I was afraid I had left it in the table drawer in the pagoda. If I had, that would have meant a wading trip for me. I suppose I’d have gone after it, but I am glad it’s here.”
“You are overflowing with repressed energy, Marjorie,” Mrs. Dean said, looking a trifle anxious. “I wonder if a quiet summer at home has really been best for you. While there is no place I know more comfortable than our own home, the change would have been beneficial to you. I believe we should have spent, at least, two weeks at the beach or in the mountains.”
“Please don’t feel that you haven’t done the very best for me, Captain!” was Marjorie’s instant response. “You know it was my fault that we didn’t go away this vacation. I said I had rather stay at home. We didn’t care to go anywhere for an outing without General, and, so long as he couldn’t be with us, we decided that home was nicest. That’s the way things were. How can you say you were to blame?”
Marjorie was hanging over her mother’s chair now, soft hands patting the face she loved most in the world.
