The Girl from Arizona Part 22

CHAPTER XVI

THE THINGS THAT HURT

MARJORIE awoke the next morning with a very heavy heart. Although Elsie's companions.h.i.+p had not proved quite all she had antic.i.p.ated, still they had hitherto been perfectly good friends. Marjorie had looked upon her clever cousin with genuine admiration, and if in some things Elsie had disappointed her, she had explained the fact to herself by remembering how different life in New York was from life in Arizona.

"Elsie has so many friends," she had told herself over and over again; "of course I can't expect her to be as fond of me as I am of her."

But last night's discovery had been a cruel disappointment, and her cousin's parting words had hurt more than perhaps Elsie herself fully realized. She had lain awake a long time, hoping--almost expecting--that Elsie would come back to tell her she was sorry. She was so ready to forgive, herself, and even to make allowances, but no sound had come from the adjoining room, and she had fallen asleep at last, still hoping that morning might bring about the longed-for reconciliation.

It was still very early, but accustomed all her life to the early hours of the ranch, she had not yet learned to sleep as late as the other members of the family. She tossed about in bed for half an hour, vainly trying to go to sleep again, and then suddenly determined to get up.

"If I could only have a canter on Roland, or a good long tramp before breakfast," she thought, with a regretful sigh, "I know it would clear the cobwebs from my brain, and I should feel ever so much better. But since that is out of the question, I may as well answer Undine's letter.

She will like a letter all to herself, and I shall have plenty of time to write before the others are up."

Accordingly, as soon as she was dressed, she sat down at her desk, and began a letter, which she was determined to make as bright and cheerful as possible.

"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 very early--only a little after six--and n.o.body else is up, but I can't get accustomed to the queer New York hours. Just think, n.o.body 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 stranger To 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-fas.h.i.+oned games, which were great fun.

"Lulu Bell, 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 the world. 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 Sat.u.r.day, 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 a person 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 sc.r.a.p 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 cla.s.s 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 Carol Hastings 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 unselfish little 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 sat watching 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.