"New York, November 28th."Dear Undine:"I was delighted to get your nice letter last week, but this is the very first spare moment I have had in which to answer it. It is still veryearly—only a little after six—and nobody else is up, but I can't get accustomed to the queer New York hours. Just think, nobody has breakfast much before half past eight, and instead of dinner at twelve or one, we don't dine till half past seven. I thought I should be dreadfully hungry when I first heard at what hour New York people dined, but really luncheon—which they have in the middle of the day—is almost the same as dinner. I have eaten so much since I came here that I am sure I must have gained pounds already."I wrote Father all about the football game, and what a wonderful day I had. Since then we have had Thanksgiving, and that was very pleasant too, though of course not as exciting as the football match and the motor ride. We all dined with Aunt Julia's sister, Mrs. Lamont. Mrs. Lamont's son, who is an artist, and very clever, drew funny sketches on all the dinner cards, and his sister made up the verses. I think my card was lovely; it had a picture of a girl riding a horse, and the verse underneath was:"'Welcome, Western strangerTo our Thanksgiving board,May you have a jolly time,And not be very bored.'"Miss Annie says she isn't a poet, and I don't suppose any of the verses were really very good, but they made everybody laugh. It was funny to have 'board' and 'bored' in the same verse, but Miss Lamont said she got hopelessly stuck when she had written the first two lines, and had to end up with 'bored,' because it was the only word she could think of to rhyme with 'the Thanksgiving board.' I sat next to Mr. Ward—Aunt Julia's other sister's husband—and he was very kind, and told funny stories all the time. After dinner we had charades, and played old-fashioned games, which were great fun."LuluBell, one of the girls at school, has gotten up a Club, which is to meet every Friday evening at the different girls' houses. We had the first meeting last night, and every girl had to write a poem in order to become a member. Some of the poems were very clever, and some very funny. One girl made 'close' rhyme with 'nose.' My poem was silly, but I am going to send it to Aunt Jessie, because she likes to keep all my foolish little things."I am so glad you are happy, and are growing so fond of Mother and Aunt Jessie. The more people I meet, the more convinced I am that they are the two of the very best in theworld. I am glad, too, that you are trying not to worry about the things you can't remember. I have told the girls at school about you, and they all think you are the most wonderful person they have ever heard of. The lady who took me to the football game had a little girl who was killed in the San Francisco earthquake. Her brother told me about it, and it is a very sad story. He asked me not to mention you to his mother, because it always distresses her to hear anything about the earthquake. She is perfectly lovely, and so bright and jolly that it seems hard to realize she has had such a great sorrow, but her son says that is because she is so unselfish, and is always thinking of other people. Isn't it wonderful how many brave, unselfish people there are in the world?"I have met a surgeon. He is the gentleman in whose car we went to New Haven last Saturday, and he is just as nice and kind as he can be. He is very clever too, and has performed some wonderful operations, but oh, Undine dear, I am afraid I shall never have the courage to speak to him about Aunt Jessie. Arizona is so far away, and it would be so terribly presumptuous to even suggest the possibility of a great surgeon's taking such a journey to see aperson he didn't even know. Still, if it could only happen—I pray about it every day."I must stop writing now, and study a little before breakfast. Be sure to write again very soon, and don't forget to give me every scrap of news about every one and everything. Kiss Roland's dear soft nose for me, and tell him not to forget his old mistress. Heaps of love and kisses for everybody, with a good share for yourself thrown in, from"Your true friend,"Marjorie Graham."
"New York, November 28th.
"I was delighted to get your nice letter last week, but this is the very first spare moment I have had in which to answer it. It is still veryearly—only a little after six—and nobody else is up, but I can't get accustomed to the queer New York hours. Just think, nobody has breakfast much before half past eight, and instead of dinner at twelve or one, we don't dine till half past seven. I thought I should be dreadfully hungry when I first heard at what hour New York people dined, but really luncheon—which they have in the middle of the day—is almost the same as dinner. I have eaten so much since I came here that I am sure I must have gained pounds already.
"I wrote Father all about the football game, and what a wonderful day I had. Since then we have had Thanksgiving, and that was very pleasant too, though of course not as exciting as the football match and the motor ride. We all dined with Aunt Julia's sister, Mrs. Lamont. Mrs. Lamont's son, who is an artist, and very clever, drew funny sketches on all the dinner cards, and his sister made up the verses. I think my card was lovely; it had a picture of a girl riding a horse, and the verse underneath was:
"'Welcome, Western strangerTo our Thanksgiving board,May you have a jolly time,And not be very bored.'
"Miss Annie says she isn't a poet, and I don't suppose any of the verses were really very good, but they made everybody laugh. It was funny to have 'board' and 'bored' in the same verse, but Miss Lamont said she got hopelessly stuck when she had written the first two lines, and had to end up with 'bored,' because it was the only word she could think of to rhyme with 'the Thanksgiving board.' I sat next to Mr. Ward—Aunt Julia's other sister's husband—and he was very kind, and told funny stories all the time. After dinner we had charades, and played old-fashioned games, which were great fun.
"LuluBell, one of the girls at school, has gotten up a Club, which is to meet every Friday evening at the different girls' houses. We had the first meeting last night, and every girl had to write a poem in order to become a member. Some of the poems were very clever, and some very funny. One girl made 'close' rhyme with 'nose.' My poem was silly, but I am going to send it to Aunt Jessie, because she likes to keep all my foolish little things.
"I am so glad you are happy, and are growing so fond of Mother and Aunt Jessie. The more people I meet, the more convinced I am that they are the two of the very best in theworld. I am glad, too, that you are trying not to worry about the things you can't remember. I have told the girls at school about you, and they all think you are the most wonderful person they have ever heard of. The lady who took me to the football game had a little girl who was killed in the San Francisco earthquake. Her brother told me about it, and it is a very sad story. He asked me not to mention you to his mother, because it always distresses her to hear anything about the earthquake. She is perfectly lovely, and so bright and jolly that it seems hard to realize she has had such a great sorrow, but her son says that is because she is so unselfish, and is always thinking of other people. Isn't it wonderful how many brave, unselfish people there are in the world?
"I have met a surgeon. He is the gentleman in whose car we went to New Haven last Saturday, and he is just as nice and kind as he can be. He is very clever too, and has performed some wonderful operations, but oh, Undine dear, I am afraid I shall never have the courage to speak to him about Aunt Jessie. Arizona is so far away, and it would be so terribly presumptuous to even suggest the possibility of a great surgeon's taking such a journey to see aperson he didn't even know. Still, if it could only happen—I pray about it every day.
"I must stop writing now, and study a little before breakfast. Be sure to write again very soon, and don't forget to give me every scrap of news about every one and everything. Kiss Roland's dear soft nose for me, and tell him not to forget his old mistress. Heaps of love and kisses for everybody, with a good share for yourself thrown in, from
"Your true friend,"Marjorie Graham."
When Elsie entered the sitting-room, she found her uncle and cousin already at the breakfast table. Mrs. Carleton had a headache, and was breakfasting in bed. Mr. Carleton's morning greeting was as pleasant and affectionate as usual, but Elsie merely vouchsafed a slight nod, and a muttered "good-morning," and then kept her eyes steadily on her plate, as though to avoid any friendly overtures on Marjorie's part.
"What are you little girls going to do to-day?" Mr. Carleton inquired pleasantly, as he rose from the table.
"I'm going to dancing-school this morning," said Elsie, "and then to lunch with Carol."
Mr. Carlton glanced inquiringly at Marjorie.
"And you?" he asked kindly—"are you going to dancing-school, too?"
Marjorie hesitated, and her color rose. It had been suggested that she should accompany Elsie to the dancing class that morning, and that Aunt Julia should make arrangements about having her admitted as a regular pupil, but after what had happened last night she did not feel at all sure that Elsie would desire her society.
"I'm—I'm not quite sure," she faltered; "I think Aunt Julia may want me to go out with her."
Mr. Carleton looked a little troubled, and when he left the room he beckoned his daughter to follow him.
"Elsie dear," he said in a rather low voice, as he put on his overcoat in the entry, "I wish you would try to do something to give Marjorie a good time to-day. She is looking rather down-hearted this morning, and I'm afraid she may be a little homesick. Can't you arrange to take her out to luncheon with you?"
Elsie shrugged her shoulders.
"She hasn't been invited," she said, shortly. She did not think it necessary to add that CarolHastings had proposed that Marjorie should make one of the party, but that she herself had opposed the plan, declaring that they would have a much pleasanter time by themselves.
Mr. Carleton frowned.
"I should think you knew Carol Hastings well enough to ask her if you might bring Marjorie with you," he said impatiently. "Remember, Elsie, what I have told you several times before; I won't have Marjorie neglected."
Now it was rather unfortunate that Mr. Carleton should have chosen just this particular time for reminding his daughter of her duty. As a rule, his words would have produced the desired effect, for Elsie stood considerably in awe of her father, but just at present she was very angry with Marjorie, and this admonition only made her angrier still.
"Marjorie is all right," she said, sulkily; "she manages to have a good time wherever she goes. If you knew as much about her as I do you wouldn't worry for fear she might be neglected."
Mr. Carleton did not look satisfied, but he had an appointment to keep, and there was no time for argument, so, after giving his daughter a good-bye kiss, and telling her to be an unselfishlittle girl, he hurried away, and had soon forgotten the incident in the interest of more important matters.
Elsie did not go back to the parlor, but went at once to her mother's room, where she remained for some time with the door closed. Marjorie, having finished her breakfast, wandered aimlessly over to the window, where she stood looking down at the crowds of people and vehicles in the street below. It was a lovely morning and, early as it was, the park seemed full of children. Some had already mounted their ponies, and others were on roller skates or bicycles. How Marjorie longed to join them, but going out alone was strictly forbidden. She was feeling very unhappy, and more homesick than at any time since coming to New York.
"I must get something to do or I shall make a goose of myself and begin to cry," she said desperately, and picking up the first book she found on the table, she plunged into it haphazard, and when Elsie returned she found her cousin to all appearances quite absorbed in "The Letters of Queen Victoria."
Elsie did not speak, but seating herself at the piano, began practicing exercises as if her life depended on it. Marjorie closed her book, and satwatching her cousin in silence for several minutes; then she spoke.
"Elsie."
"Well, what is it?" inquired Elsie, wheeling round on the piano stool.
"Aren't you going to be friends with me?"
"I certainly am not unless you intend to apologize for the outrageous things you said to me last night. I've been telling Mamma about it, and she is very angry."
Marjorie rose.
"I can't apologize, Elsie; you know I can't," she said, steadily, and without another word she turned and left the room.
When Mrs. Carleton entered her niece's room an hour later, she found Marjorie curled up in a little disconsolate heap on the bed, her face buried in the pillows. Aunt Julia was still in her morning wrapper, and was looking decidedly worried.
"Marjorie," she began in a rather fretful tone, as she closed the door, and sank wearily into the arm-chair, "I am very much distressed by what Elsie tells me. I have come to ask you what it all means."
Marjorie raised a swollen, tear-stained face from the pillows.
"What has Elsie told you?" she inquired anxiously.
Mrs. Carleton pressed her hand to her forehead.
"O dear!" she sighed, "my head aches so this morning, and I do dislike all these quarrels and arguments. I did hope you and Elsie would get on together without quarreling."
"I don't want to quarrel," protested Marjorie; "what does Elsie say about me?"
"She says you have been very unkind and unjust to her. She won't tell me what it is all about. I tried to make her tell, but Elsie is so honorable; she hates tale-bearing. But I know you have hurt her pride, and made her very unhappy."
Marjorie was silent; what could she say? And after a moment her aunt went on in her fretful, complaining voice.
"I don't believe you have the least idea what a noble, splendid girl Elsie is. It was rather hard for her at first when she heard you were coming to spend the winter, for of course it couldn't help making some difference. She has never had to share anything with any one else before. But she was so sweet and unselfish about it, and I did hope things might go on asthey had begun. But now you have begun to quarrel, and I suppose there will be nothing but trouble and unpleasantness all winter."
"She was so sweet and unselfish about it!" How those words hurt Marjorie, and all the time she had been thinking that Elsie had looked forward to meeting her almost, if not quite as much, as she had looked forward to knowing the cousin who was "the next best thing to a sister." It was only by a mighty effort that she managed to choke back the flood of scalding tears, which threatened to overwhelm her.
"I'm very sorry, Aunt Julia," she said tremulously; "I didn't mean to quarrel with Elsie. If she had told you what it was about perhaps you would have understood."
"Well, she wouldn't tell," said Mrs. Carleton, crossly, "so there is no use in talking about that. All I want to say to you is that I am very much annoyed, and sincerely hope nothing so unpleasant will happen again. Elsie has gone to dancing-school, and Hortense has gone with her, as my head was so bad. Now I am going back to my room to lie down for a while; perhaps I may be better by luncheon time."
That was the most unhappy day Marjorie had ever spent in her life. It seemed to her as if themorning would never end, and when her aunt appeared at luncheon she still wore an air of injured dignity, and entertained Marjorie during the meal, with a long account of Elsie's many accomplishments, a subject of which her niece was becoming heartily tired, although she would scarcely have admitted the fact even to herself. Soon after luncheon Mr. Carleton telephoned to say that he would come uptown in time to drive with his wife, and Aunt Julia proposed that Marjorie should go for a walk with Hortense. The girl's own head was aching by this time, and she was glad of a brisk walk in the keen, frosty air, but she was so unusually silent and preoccupied, that the maid asked her anxiously if she "had the homesickness."
"Yes," said Marjorie, with a catch in her voice, "I've got it badly to-day."
"Ah, I understand," murmured Hortense, softly, "Mademoiselle is like me—I, too, often have the homesickness."
Elsie did not reach home till after five, as Carol's mother had taken the two girls to the theater, and even then she took no notice of Marjorie, but went at once to her mother's room, where Marjorie heard her giving a long and animated account of the play she had seen.
"By the way," remarked Mr. Carleton at dinner that evening, "I forgot to ask about the Club—how did the poems turn out?"
There was a moment's embarrassed silence, and Marjorie's heart began to beat very fast; then Elsie spoke.
"They were all very silly," she said, indifferently. "I told Lulu it was nonsense having all the girls write poems."
"Whose poem was the best?" Mr. Carleton asked.
"They made me president of the Club," said Elsie, her eyes bent on her plate; "my poem got the most votes."
"I was sure it would," murmured Mrs. Carleton, with an adoring glance at her clever daughter. "Why didn't you tell us about it before, darling—you knew how interested we would be?"
"Let me see the poem," said Mr. Carleton, good-naturedly; "I should like to judge its merits for myself."
"I can't; I've torn it up." Elsie tried to speak in a tone of complete indifference, but her cheeks were crimson, and her father watched her curiously.
"My darling child, how very foolish!" remonstratedMrs. Carleton. "You know your father and I always want to see everything you write. Why in the world did you tear it up?"
"Oh, it wasn't any good," said Elsie, with an uneasy glance at Marjorie; "some of the girls thought Lulu's poem was better."
"I don't believe it was, though," Mrs. Carleton maintained with conviction. "Wasn't Elsie's poem much the best, Marjorie?"
It was a dreadful moment for poor Marjorie. She had never told a lie in her life, and yet how could she offend her uncle and aunt, who were doing so much for her, and who both adored Elsie? She cast an appealing glance at her cousin, and remained silent.
"Oh, you needn't ask Marjorie," remarked Elsie, with a disagreeable laugh; "she doesn't like my poem. She only got five votes herself, so I suppose it's rather hard for her to judge of other people's poetry."
Mr. Carleton frowned, and Mrs. Carleton looked distressed, but no more was said on the subject, for which Marjorie felt sincerely thankful.
The next day was Sunday, and the most unhappy, homesick day Marjorie had spent in NewYork. Her uncle was the only member of the family who continued to treat her as usual. Elsie scarcely spoke to her, and Aunt Julia, though evidently making an effort to be kind, showed so plainly by her manner that she was both hurt and displeased, that poor Marjorie's heart grew heavier and heavier. They all went to church in the morning, and in the afternoon Elsie went for a drive with her mother, and Mr. Carleton retired to his own room to read and write letters. Marjorie began her usual home letter, but had not written half a page when she broke down, and spent the next half hour in having a good cry, which was perhaps the most satisfactory thing she could have done under the circumstances.
She had just dried her eyes, and having made a brave resolution not to be so foolish again, was sitting down with the intention of going on with her letter, when she heard her uncle's voice calling her from the sitting-room.
"Come here, Marjorie," said Mr. Carleton, kindly, as his niece appeared in answer to his summons. "Sit down and let us have a little talk before the others come home."
Marjorie complied. She hoped devoutly that her uncle would not notice that she had been crying,but perhaps Uncle Henry's eyes were sharper than his family always suspected.
"Marjorie," he said abruptly, "I want you to tell me what this trouble is between you and Elsie."
Marjorie gave a little gasp, and her cheeks grew pink.
"I—I'm afraid I can't tell you, Uncle Henry," she faltered; "you had better ask Elsie."
"I have asked her, and so has your aunt, but she refused to tell us anything except that you have quarreled about something, and that you have treated her rather unkindly."
Marjorie's eyes flashed indignantly, and she bit her lips to keep back the angry words.
"Now I happen to know a good deal about these little quarrels of Elsie's," Mr. Carleton went on quietly. "She is a good girl, and a clever one, too, but she has her faults and I have no reason to suppose that you are any more to blame than she in this case. All I want is a clear account of what happened, and then I can settle this tempest in a teapot, which I can see has been making you both unhappy for the past two days."
By this time Marjorie had succeeded in controllingher temper, and her voice was quite clear and steady as she answered—
"I am very sorry, Uncle Henry, but if Elsie hasn't told you what the trouble is, I am afraid I can't tell either. Please don't be angry, or think me disrespectful, but I can't tell; it wouldn't be fair."
Mr. Carleton was evidently displeased.
"Very well," he said, turning away coldly, and taking up a book, "I have no more to say on the matter. I am sorry, for I hoped you would have sufficient confidence in your aunt and me to trust us, and confide in us. I do not wish to force you to tell us anything against your will, but you must remember that your mother has placed you under our care."
The tears rushed to Marjorie's eyes.
"Oh, Uncle Henry!" she began, then checked herself abruptly, and, with a half suppressed sob, turned and fled back to her own room.
It was more than an hour later when Elsie presented herself at her cousin's door.
"May I come in, Marjorie?" she inquired in a rather conciliatory tone.
Marjorie looked up from the letter she was writing; her face brightening with sudden hope.
"Of course you may," she said, heartily.
"Oh, Elsie, do let us make up; I can't stand not being friends with people I love."
Elsie advanced slowly into the room and closed the door.
"Papa has been talking to me," she said, "and I have promised him to forgive you for what you said to me the other night. You—you didn't tell him anything, did you?"
"No," said Marjorie indignantly, "of course I didn't. He asked me, but I wouldn't tell. I'm afraid I made him angry."
Elsie looked much relieved.
"That's all right," she said, speaking more pleasantly than she had done since the meeting of the Poetry Club. "We won't say any more about it. I've torn up that silly poem, and nobody is going to remember it. If Beverly Randolph should ever say anything to you, you can tell him it was just a joke. Now come into my room, and I'll tell you all about the good time Carol and I had yesterday."
But although Marjorie accepted the olive branch, and she and Elsie were apparently as good friends as ever that evening, her confidence in her cousin had been cruelly shaken, and she told herself sadly that she could never feel quite the same towards Elsie again. Still, it was agreat comfort to be on good terms once more, and to see the worried expression disappear from Aunt Julia's face, even though she could not help feeling a slight shock on hearing her aunt remark in a low tone to her uncle at the dinner table:
"Isn't Elsie sweet? I really think she has the most lovable, forgiving disposition I have ever known."
Itwas a stormy December afternoon, about ten days later, and Marjorie was alone in her room preparing her lessons for the next day. Elsie had gone shopping with her mother, and Hortense had been sent on an errand. Marjorie was aroused from the intricacies of a difficult mathematical problem by a ring at the bell, and on going to the door, found Beverly Randolph standing on the threshold.
It was the first time the two had been alone together since the evening of the Initiation, and in spite of herself, Marjorie felt her cheeks growing hot as she asked the visitor to come in. But Beverly had no intention of referring to unpleasant bygones.
"I'm so glad to find you at home," he said, with his pleasant smile and in the voice that always put people at their ease. "My mother sent me to ask if you would come and sit with her for a while this afternoon, provided you have nothingmore important to do. She is laid up with a cold, and is feeling rather blue and forlorn."
"I should love to come," said Marjorie, her face brightening at the prospect. "I was afraid your mother might not be well when I didn't see her at luncheon. I hope she isn't really ill."
"Oh, no; nothing but a disagreeable cold, that has kept her in the house for the past two days. I'm glad you can come, for I'm sure it will cheer her up."
"All right," said Marjorie; "I'll come in just a minute. I must leave a note for Aunt Julia in case she should get home before I do."
Marjorie found Mrs. Randolph sitting in an arm-chair by the fire, looking rather pale and tired, but her greeting to the girl was just as kind and cheerful as usual, and Marjorie hoped that it was only in her imagination that she saw that sad, wistful expression in her kind friend's eyes.
"Now sit down and tell me about all you have been doing," said Mrs. Randolph, when the first greetings had been exchanged. "I love to hear about the things girls are interested in. My little Barbara used to tell me of all her good times as well as her troubles. I am so glad you have brought your work—what are you making?"
"A shawl for my aunt's Christmas present;one of the girls at school taught me the stitch, and I think it's going to be very pretty. I shall have to work hard, though, to finish it in time. Do you like the color?"
"Very much," said Mrs. Randolph. "I suppose this will be your first Christmas away from home?"
A shadow crossed Marjorie's bright face. "I try not to think of it," she said. "It's going to be pretty hard, but every one has been so kind, and Uncle Henry and Aunt Julia are doing so much for me, that it wouldn't be right to be unhappy. I think perhaps if I keep very busy I shall manage to get on all right. Aunt Jessie says that's a good way of making the best of things that can't be helped."
Mrs. Randolph said nothing, but the look she gave Marjorie was such an understanding one that the girl's heart warmed towards her more and more. The next half-hour slipped away very pleasantly. Mrs. Randolph was one of those rare people who have the power of drawing others out, and Marjorie chatted away to her of school and school-friends, and all the little unimportant happenings of her New York life, with almost as much freedom as she would have talked to her mother or aunt. Then Mrs. Randolphasked her if she liked reading aloud, and when Marjorie assured her that she had read a great deal to Aunt Jessie, she explained that, owing to a cold in her eyes, she had not been able to read herself for several days. Marjorie was delighted to be of real use, and they were soon deep in an interesting story. Marjorie read aloud very well, and it was an accomplishment of which she was rather proud.
At five o'clock Beverly, who had gone to his room to "cram," as he expressed it, returned, and his mother rang the bell for tea.
"Marjorie and I have had a delightful afternoon," she said; "she seems to be almost as fond of reading aloud as I am of listening. I am going to be very selfish and ask her to come again to-morrow, provided she can spare the time. The doctor doesn't want me to use my eyes much for several days."
"I shall just love to come," declared Marjorie eagerly, "and I can easily manage it. My lessons aren't very hard, and I always have a good deal of time to myself every day."
"Don't you and your cousin ever go off together in the afternoons?" Beverly inquired bluntly.
Marjorie blushed.
"Not very often," she admitted reluctantly. "You see, Elsie has so many more friends than I have, and they are always doing things together. I like the girls at school ever so much, and they are all very nice and kind to me, but of course they don't know me very well yet."
"How did the last meeting of the Club come off?" Beverly asked. "I was sorry I couldn't go, but I had another engagement."
Marjorie was conscious of a sensation of embarrassment at this mention of the Club, for she had not forgotten the secret that she and Beverly shared together, but she tried to answer quite naturally.
"Oh, it was very pleasant. The girls have decided to sew for the little blind children at the 'Home For Blind Babies.' We sewed for three quarters of an hour, and then Carol said we might as well stop, and begin to get ready for the boys. They weren't invited till nine, but some of the girls seemed to think it would take some time to get ready for them, though there really wasn't anything in particular to do. I hope they'll sew a little longer next time, for if they don't I'm afraid the Club won't accomplish very much."
Mrs. Randolph and Beverly both laughed, andthen Beverly sauntered over to the piano, and began to drum.
"Sing something, dear," said his mother. "Are you fond of music, Marjorie?"
"I think I should be if I had a chance of hearing much," said Marjorie, smiling, "but until I came to New York I had scarcely ever heard any music except the boys singing on the ranch. Mother used to play a little when she was a girl, but we haven't any piano. I love to hear Elsie play."
"Well, I think you will like to hear Beverly sing; you know he is on the college Glee Club. Sing that pretty Irish ballad, 'She Is Far From the Land,' Beverly; I am sure Marjorie will like that."
Beverly laughingly protested that he had no voice whatever, and was sure Marjorie would want to run away the moment he began to sing, but good-naturedly yielded to his mother's request, and after striking a few preliminary chords, began in a clear tenor voice—
"'She is far from the land where the young hero lies.'"
Marjorie—who had a real love for music—was much impressed, and at the close of the ballad,begged so earnestly for more, that Beverly could not help being flattered, and his mother beamed with pleasure.
Beverly sang several more ballads, and one or two college songs, and then, after strumming idly on the piano for a moment, as if uncertain what to sing next, he suddenly broke into an air Marjorie knew.
"'In the old Mulniam pagoda,Lookin' eastward to the sea;There's a Burma gal a-waitin',And I know she thinks of me;For the wind is in the palm-trees,And the Temple bells they say,Come you back, you British soldier,Come you back to Mandalay."'Come you back to Mandalay,Where the old flotilla lay,Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin'From Rangoon to Mandalay?On the road to Mandalay,Where the flyin' fishes play,And the sun comes up like thunder,Outer China 'cross the bay.'"
Marjorie turned with a start, arrested by the sound of a low, half-suppressed sob. Mrs. Randolph had covered her face with her hands, and was crying softly. At the same moment Beverly also turned, and, with an exclamation of dismay,hastily sprang to his feet, and hurried to his mother's side.
"Oh, Mother dear, I'm so sorry!" cried the boy, dropping on his knees, and trying to draw Mrs. Randolph's hands down from her face. "I never thought; it was very careless. Oh, Mother darling, please don't cry—please forgive me!"
At the sound of her son's voice, Mrs. Randolph looked up, and tried to smile through her tears.
"Never mind, dear," she said, gently, "it was very foolish of me, but that song—you know how fond she was of it."
"Yes, Mother, I know; I was a brute to have forgotten." And Beverly put his strong young arms tenderly round his mother. Mrs. Randolph laid her head on his shoulder for a moment, as if she found comfort in the touch, and then she roused herself with an effort, dried her eyes, and turned to Marjorie.
"You must excuse me for being so foolish, dear," she said, "but that was my little Barbara's favorite song; she was always asking Beverly to sing it. I don't think I have heard it since—since she went away."
There were tears of sympathy in Marjorie's eyes, and although she said nothing, the look shegave her friend touched Mrs. Randolph, and perhaps comforted her more than any words would have done.
"Oh, Mother Dear, I'm so Sorry!"—Page 243."Oh, Mother Dear, I'm so Sorry!"—Page 243.
Beverly did not sing again, but quietly closed the piano, and for the rest of the afternoon his merry boyish face was unusually grave.
"You have given me a great deal of pleasure," Mrs. Randolph said, when Marjorie at last rose to go. "I hope you will come again to-morrow. It is very tiresome to have to stay in the house all day, especially when one hasn't the solace of reading."
Marjorie said she would surely come again, and then she hurried back to their own apartment, where she found her aunt and cousin, who had come in some time before.
Mrs. Carleton had read Marjorie's note, and had no objection to the girl's spending as much time with the invalid as she liked.
"Was Beverly at home?" Elsie inquired, anxiously, following her cousin to her room.
"He was there some of the time," said Marjorie; "he had lessons to do at first, but he came in for tea. Mrs. Randolph asked him to sing—he has a beautiful voice."
"You certainly have a way of getting whatyou want," remarked Elsie in a rather dissatisfied tone; "I wonder how you manage."
"Manage what?" demanded Marjorie in amazement; "what in the world do you mean, Elsie?"
Elsie shrugged her shoulders.
"Oh, I guess you know," she said, sarcastically, and walked out of the room, leaving Marjorie very much puzzled, and more than a little uncomfortable.
Mrs. Randolph did not recover from her cold as quickly as she had hoped, and she was confined to the house for nearly a week. Her eyes, too, continued troublesome, and reading and sewing were strictly forbidden. So it came to be quite a natural thing that Marjorie should spend an hour every afternoon in the Randolphs' apartment, and the girl grew to look forward to those hours as the pleasantest of the whole day.
"You remind me more of my little Barbara every day," Mrs. Randolph said to her once, and Marjorie felt that she had received a great compliment. She was growing to feel a deep interest in this Barbara, whose tragic death had cast such a shadow of sorrow over her mother's life, but she had too much tact, and was too kind-hearted,to show undue curiosity on a painful subject, and so, though there were many questions she would have liked to ask about this unknown Barbara, she refrained from asking one, and was fain to content herself with the stray bits of information that Mrs. Randolph or Beverly occasionally let fall.
When Mrs. Randolph was well again Marjorie greatly missed the daily chat, and pleasant hour of reading aloud. The drives with Aunt Julia, shut up in the brougham, with only one window open, proved a most unsatisfactory substitute, but her aunt was very kind, and showed so much real interest in the Christmas box she was preparing for her dear ones at home that Marjorie reproached herself bitterly for not finding Aunt Julia's society as agreeable as Mrs. Randolph's. But Christmas was drawing near, and there were times when Marjorie fought desperately against the homesickness, which seemed almost greater than she could bear.
To add to everything else, she caught a feverish cold, and Mrs. Carleton, who was always nervous about illness, insisted on her remaining in the house; a state of affairs hitherto unknown to healthy Marjorie, who had never in her life spent a day in bed.
It was on the second afternoon of headache and sore throat that Mrs. Randolph came to the rescue. Marjorie had come to the end of her resources. She had read till her eyes ached, and sewed on Christmas presents until she felt that she couldn't take another stitch. The longing for fresh air and exercise was almost beyond her endurance, and yet she dared not even open a window, for fear of incurring her aunt's displeasure. Mrs. Carleton and Elsie were out, but Hortense had been left in charge, with strict injunctions to see that Mademoiselle Marjorie kept out of draughts, and took her medicine regularly. Marjorie was just wondering in her desperation whether a walk up and down the steam-heated hotel corridor would be regarded in the light of an imprudence, when there was a ring at the bell, and Hortense announced Mrs. Randolph.
"I have only just heard you were ill," the visitor said kindly, taking Marjorie's hand in hers, and looking with sympathetic interest into the pale, woe-begone face. "Your aunt told Beverly at luncheon that you had a bad cold. You should have let me know sooner; I can't have my kind little friend laid up without trying to return some of her goodness to me."
"It wasn't goodness at all," said Marjorie,flushing with pleasure; "it was just having a lovely time. I was thinking only yesterday, what a very selfish girl I must be, for I couldn't help being sorry you didn't need me any more, it's so pleasant to be needed."
Marjorie's voice trembled a little, for she was feeling rather weak and forlorn, and Mrs. Randolph drew her down beside her on the sofa.
"I think I always need you, dear," she said. "I have missed your visits very much, and reading to myself doesn't seem half as pleasant as having a nice little girl read aloud to me. Still, I am glad to have the use of my eyes again, especially as we are going away next week."
"Going away!" repeated Marjorie, and her face expressed so much dismay that Mrs. Randolph could not help smiling.
"We are not going for good," she explained, "but Beverly's vacation begins next Wednesday, and he is anxious to spend Christmas at our Virginia home. We shall only be away about ten days."
Marjorie looked much relieved.
"I was afraid you meant you were going to Europe, or somewhere far away," she said, "and that I shouldn't see you any more. I don't know what I should do without you."
"And I should miss you very much, too," said Mrs. Randolph, "but nothing so unpleasant is going to happen, I hope. What are your plans for the holidays?"
"Oh, nothing in particular. Elsie and I are invited to several parties, and Aunt Julia's sister, Mrs. Ward, is having a tree on Christmas night. I can't help wishing the holidays were over. It will be my first Christmas away from home, you know."
"I suppose your family will miss you as much as you miss them," Mrs. Randolph said, sympathetically.
"Yes, I know they will, and that is one of the hardest things to bear. I had a letter from Undine to-day, and she says they are all very sad, though they are trying hard to be brave and cheerful."
"Who is Undine?"
"Oh, haven't I told you about her? She's a girl who lives at the ranch, and we call her Undine, but it isn't her real name."
Mrs. Randolph looked interested.
"What is her real name?" she asked, anxious to cheer Marjorie by talking of home and friends.
Marjorie opened her lips to explain, but suddenly remembered something Beverly had toldher. It would be scarcely possible to tell Undine's story without mentioning the fatal subject of the earthquake, so she only said:
"We don't know her real name, but the people she lived with before she came to the ranch called her Sally. She didn't like Sally, and asked us to call her something else, and I suggested Undine."
Mrs. Randolph laughed. "A rather romantic name for a flesh and blood girl," she said; "how old is your Undine?"
"About fifteen, we think, but we are not sure, and she doesn't know herself. Lulu Bell says you have a beautiful home in Virginia. I suppose you will be glad to go there for the holidays."
"Yes, we all love it very much. It is a dear old place; my husband's family have lived there for generations, and my old home, where I lived before I married, is only a couple of miles away."
"I have always thought Virginia must be a very interesting place," said Marjorie. "I have read ever so many books about the early settlers in Jamestown. Have you read 'To Have and to Hold,' and 'White Aprons'?"
"Yes, I have read both. Our home is on theJames River, not far from Jamestown—would you like to see it?"
"I should love it," said Marjorie, heartily. "I don't suppose I ever shall though," she added, with a sigh.
"I don't see why not," said Mrs. Randolph, smiling. "How would you like to go home with us for the holidays?"
Marjorie was speechless. For the first moment she could scarcely believe that her friend was in earnest.
"I came this afternoon on purpose to propose it," Mrs. Randolph went on, convinced by the girl's flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes that there was no doubt about her wanting to accept the invitation. "Beverly and I were speaking of it last evening. We shall be alone except for Dr. Randolph, who is going with us, but we have some pleasant young people in the neighborhood, and there is generally a good deal going on at Christmas. I think you would have a pleasant time."
"It would be the next best thing to going home," declared Marjorie, "but, oh, dear Mrs. Randolph, are you sure you really want me?"
"Quite sure," said Mrs. Randolph, kissing her."It will make us all very happy to have our nice little friend with us."
"If only Aunt Julia will let me go," said Marjorie, with a vivid recollection of her aunt's rebuke on the evening after the football game.
But, contrary to Marjorie's expectations, Mrs. Carleton made no objection to the plan, beyond hoping that the Randolphs would not find her niece too much care. Neither did Elsie make any of the unpleasant remarks her cousin expected. Since the first meeting of the Poetry Club, Beverly and she had not had much to say to each other. Beverly was always polite, but Elsie could never feel quite comfortable in his society, and the knowledge that he was not to share in any of the holiday gayeties was something of a relief. She and Marjorie were apparently very good friends, but there was a look in Marjorie's eyes sometimes when they rested on her cousin, which Elsie did not like. So when Mrs. Carleton consulted her daughter on the subject of Marjorie's going to Virginia with the Randolph's, Elsie said good-naturedly:
"Oh, let her go, Mamma; she'll have a much better time than she would here. It would be such a bother to have to take her everywhere, and see she had partners at the dances, and allthat. Papa would be sure to ask questions and make a fuss if she didn't have a good time."
So the invitation was accepted, and Marjorie wrote a long, joyful letter to her mother, and went to bed that night, feeling happier than she had done since coming to New York.
"It'sthe most beautiful place I've ever even imagined!" Marjorie spoke with conviction, and drew in a long, deep breath of the fresh morning air.
She and Beverly were standing on the wide veranda at Randolph Place gazing off over the wide landscape, of low Virginia hills, with the wide river less than half a mile away. It was a glorious morning, and the peace and quiet seemed indescribably delightful after the noisy, stuffy night on the train. Beverly was very proud of his Southern home, but boy like, he tried not to show it.
"It's pretty enough," he admitted, "but this isn't the season to see it at its best; you ought to come here in the spring."
"It's perfect just as it is," declared Marjorie. "I've read about such places, but never expected to see one myself. Is that river really the James,and did your great-grandfather truly live in this very house?"
"He most certainly did," said Beverly, laughing; "my people have lived here for over a hundred years. You should have heard some of my father's war stories. He was only a boy at the time of the war, but he had some exciting experiences. When I was a little chap I used to wish I had been alive then, too."
"Oh, I love war stories!" cried Marjorie, rapturously; "are there any people here now who can tell them?"
"Yes, indeed, plenty. I'll introduce you to old Uncle Josh. He was my grandfather's body servant, and went all through the war with him. He's over seventy now, and doesn't work any more, but he and his wife live in a cabin down at the quarters."
"It all sounds just like a story-book," said Marjorie, with a little sigh of utter content. "I should think you would be tremendously proud of your home."
"I like it all right," said Beverly, "but now hadn't you better come in and have some breakfast? I hear Mother and Uncle George in the dining-room, and I should think you'd be hungry, for it's after nine, and you were up before six."
"Of course I was," laughed Marjorie; "I was much too excited to sleep. I wasn't going to miss the first sight of Virginia."
The dining-room at Randolph Place was very large, and the walls were lined with portraits. Marjorie was so much interested in the portraits of great-grandfather and great-grandmother Randolph, that she came near forgetting to eat her breakfast, although the fried eggs and bacon, and waffles with maple syrup, were certainly the most delicious she had ever tasted. Mrs. Randolph and the doctor watched her with kindly amusement. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement, and there was a bright color in her cheeks; she seemed quite a different creature from the pale, subdued girl of a week before.
"I declare, Barbara, I had no idea that little girl was so pretty," Dr. Randolph remarked in a low tone to his sister-in-law, when Marjorie and Beverly were in the midst of an animated discussion about Captain John Smith and Pocahontas.
"She is charming," Mrs. Randolph answered, smiling. "It is strange how much environment has to do with appearance."
"And now I am going to take you to your room, Marjorie," said Mrs. Randolph as they rose from the breakfast table. "You will wantto unpack and wash up a little after that dusty journey. I have asked some cousins of ours, the Pattersons, to luncheon, and perhaps this afternoon you and Beverly will like to go for a ride. I needn't ask if you are accustomed to riding; every girl brought up on a ranch must be."
"I have ridden ever since I can remember," said Marjorie, her eyes sparkling at the prospect of the coming pleasure. "I would rather ride a horse than do anything else in the world."
Mrs. Randolph laughed, and led the way up a broad oak staircase, and along a wide hall, to the prettiest little room imaginable, all furnished in pink and white; a typical girl's room, as Marjorie saw at the first glance.
"I have put you here because this room is next to mine," Mrs. Randolph explained. "I thought you would like it better than being away down at the other end of the hall. This was my little Barbara's room," she added softly; "no one has slept here since she left it, and nothing has been changed."
"Oh, Mrs. Randolph," cried Marjorie, gratefully, "how very good you are to me, but are you sure you really want me to have this room?"
"Yes, dear, I am quite sure I do. If my Barbara were alive I know she would love you,and I like to think I shall have a little girl next to me again to-night."
With a sudden impulse, Marjorie flung her arms round Mrs. Randolph's neck and hugged her. She did not speak—words did not come easily just then—but Barbara's mother understood, and the kiss she gave in return was a very tender one.
When Marjorie was left alone, her first occupation was to look about the room, and examine all its details. It was very simple, but everything was in perfect taste, and the girl admired it all, from the pretty china ornaments on the bureau, to the row of books on a shelf over the writing-desk. She took down one of the books reverently; it seemed almost like sacrilege to touch these things that had belonged to another girl, whose death had been so very sad. It was "Lorna Doone," and on the fly-leaf Marjorie read, "To Barbara Randolph, from her affectionate cousin, Grace Patterson." Then she examined the framed photographs on the mantelpiece; Mrs. Randolph and Beverly, and a gentleman whom she supposed must have been Barbara's father. There were other photographs as well, one in particular of a girl with curly hair, and a very friendly expression, and Marjoriewondered if she could be the cousin, who had given Barbara "Lorna Doone." It was strange how intimate she was beginning to feel with this Barbara, who had died nearly three years ago.
Marjorie had just finished her unpacking when there was a tap at her door, and in answer to her "Come in," a girl of about her own age presented herself. One glance was sufficient to assure Marjorie that she was the same curly-haired, friendly-faced girl, whose photograph, in a silver frame, stood in a prominent place on the writing-desk.
"I'm Grace Patterson," announced the visitor, in a voice as friendly as her face. "Cousin Barbara told me to come right up; my brother and I have come over especially to see you."
"I'm very glad to meet you," said Marjorie, shaking hands, and drawing forward a chair for her guest. "I've just been looking at your picture," she added, smiling.
Grace Patterson glanced about the room, and a shade of sadness crossed her bright face.
"It seems so strange to be in this room again," she said; "I haven't been here since poor Babs—you've heard about Babs, of course?"
Marjorie nodded.
"She was my chum," said Grace, with a littlecatch in her voice, "and one of the dearest girls that ever lived. We were almost the same age, and as neither of us had any sisters, we were together a great deal. Babs had a governess, and my younger brother and I used to come over here every day for lessons. Our place is only two miles away, and my mother and Cousin Barbara are great friends. It nearly killed poor Cousin Barbara."
"I know," said Marjorie. "It was lovely of Mrs. Randolph to let me have this room. I have been so interested in Barbara ever since I first heard about her, but I don't like to talk to her mother or brother about her."
"You know how it happened, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes; Beverly told me that. It must have been a frightful shock to you all."
"Frightful! I should say it was. Even Beverly has never been quite the same since. He was devoted to Babs, and they were such chums. I don't think it would have been quite so terrible if they could have recognized her afterward, but she was so frightfully injured—oh, I can't bear to talk about it! They recognized Miss Randolph, Bab's aunt, but poor Babs was completely crushed, and—oh, let's come downstairs. I can't stand it up here; it gives me the horrors."
There were more questions Marjorie would have liked to ask, but the subject was evidently a very painful one to her new acquaintance, for Grace had grown rather pale, and there was a look of horror in her eyes. So she said no more, and the two girls went downstairs, where they found the family assembled, and where Marjorie was introduced to Harry Patterson—Grace's brother—a pleasant-faced boy of seventeen.
The Pattersons stayed to luncheon, and Marjorie liked them immensely. Grace soon recovered from the momentary depression, caused by recalling painful memories, and Marjorie was quite ready to endorse Beverly's opinion that "she was one of the jolliest girls going." They had a very merry morning, and after luncheon it was proposed that Marjorie and Beverly should ride home with the Pattersons, who had come over on their ponies.
"Marjorie is pining for a gallop, I know," said Beverly, laughing; "she is as wild about horses as you are, Grace, and trained a colt when she was nine."
"How jolly!" cried Grace; "you and I can have some fine rides together, Marjorie. I haven't had a girl to ride with since—" Grace did not finish her sentence, but Marjorie knew byher suddenly heightened color, and the glance she gave Beverly, that she was thinking of her cousin Barbara.
"I declare they've brought Nelly Gray for you to ride!" whispered Grace to Marjorie, as the two girls stood on the veranda, waiting to mount. "I didn't know any one rode her now."
"She's a beauty," said Marjorie, with an admiring glance at the handsome little chestnut mare, which was being led up to the door by a groom.
"Oh, she's a love! She was Babs's pony, and Babs loved her dearly. I remember she taught her to take sugar out of her pocket."
Nelly Gray certainly was "a love" and Marjorie enjoyed that ride as she had enjoyed few things since leaving her Western home. It was a beautiful afternoon, and Nelly herself appeared to enjoy it almost as much as her rider. They took the longest way round to the Patterson home, and when they had left their friends, Beverly proposed that they should ride a few miles farther, and come home by a different road.
"I think I could ride all night without getting tired," laughed Marjorie. "This is an adorable pony."
"She was my sister's pony," said Beverly.
"Yes, I know, your cousin told me. It was awfully good of you and your mother to let me ride her."
Beverly said nothing, and they rode on for a few moments in silence, both young faces unusually grave. Marjorie was the first to speak.
"I wish I could make your mother understand how much I appreciate all she has done for me," she said, impulsively. "Do you know she has given me your sister's room?"
"Yes, she told me she was going to. Mother is very fond of you, and she says she thinks Babs would have loved you, too."
"I know I should have loved her," said Marjorie, earnestly. "Grace has been telling me about her, and I have been looking at all her things."
"She was almost as fond of riding as you are," said Beverly. "She was such a plucky little girl; never afraid of anything. She rode better than any girl in the neighborhood."
Beverly's voice sounded a little husky, and Marjorie thought it might be best to change the subject, so she launched into an account of a "round up" she had once seen, and the rest of the ride was a very merry one.
"Will you mind if I stop for a moment tospeak to my old mammy?" Beverly asked, as they were on their way home. "She lives in one of these cabins, and I know she'll be on the lookout for me."
"Of course I won't mind," said Marjorie, promptly; "I shall love it. I've never seen a real colored mammy, but I've often read about them in stories."
"Well, you shall see one now. Ours was the genuine article, though people pretend to say the old-fashioned darky is a thing of the past. She was devoted to Babs and me, although she was a firm believer in the efficacy of the rod. We loved her dearly, and minded her better than we minded Mother. She was put on the pension list several years ago, and now has a cabin to herself. Here it is, and there's Mammy on the watch for us, as I was sure she would be. Hello, Mammy, here's your bad boy back again!"
Beverly sprang to the ground, and the next moment was being rapturously hugged by a very stout old negress, with a turban on her head. She was so exactly Marjorie's idea of what a mammy ought to be, that the girl was delighted, and sat looking on with deep interest, while Beverly and his old nurse exchanged greetings. Then Marjorie herself was introduced, andMammy begged them both to tie their horses, and come in for a cup of tea. But Beverly declared it was too late, and they finally made their escape, having promised to come another day, for a feast of the waffles, for which it appeared Mammy was famous.
"It has been one of the loveliest days I've ever had," Marjorie declared, as they rode up the avenue at Randolph Place, in the light of the setting sun. "I shall never forget it as long as I live, and I shall have so much to write home in my next letter, that I believe it will fill a volume."