The Girl from Arizona Part 14

"Oh, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle," gasped Hortense, seizing Marjorie's arm, and fairly trembling with fright and horror; "how could you do such a terrible thing? A young lady to fight with a _canaille_! Oh, what will Madame say when she hears?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: WITH ONE QUICK MOVEMENT SHE SEIZED THE WHIP HANDLE.--_Page 145._]

"He is a wicked, cruel boy," panted Marjorie; "he ought to be arrested.

He is killing that poor old horse."

"Yes, I know, he is cruel, a beast, but young ladies must not interfere with such things. You might have been hurt. Let us go home quickly; I am near to faint. Thank Heaven no one saw. Madame would never forgive such a disgrace."

"But some one ought to interfere," protested Marjorie, her wrath beginning to cool, "and there wasn't anybody else to do it. I would have taken that whip away from him if I could, but he was so strong, and he has hurt my wrist."

"Hurt your wrist! Let me see. Ah, but it is red. How could you have held on so tight? Come home quickly, and we will bathe it with arnica. How fortunate that Madame and Mademoiselle Elsie are away! Ah, here comes the young gentleman, Mademoiselle Elsie's friend from the hotel; he must not know that anything is wrong."

But Marjorie had no intention of keeping her indignation to herself, and she turned to greet Beverly Randolph with eyes that flashed and cheeks that tingled.

"Oh, Mr. Randolph," she exclaimed, as the young man smilingly took off his hat, and paused beside her, "the most dreadful thing has happened. A cruel, wicked boy has been ill-treating a poor old horse.

The poor creature had a terribly heavy load, and when he refused to go any further, the boy beat him, and--"

"Where is he?" inquired Beverly, his own eyes beginning to flash. "I'll report the case to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals."

"He has gone," said Marjorie, regretfully. "He gave the horse a dreadful cut with the whip, and it was so frightened it started, and then he jumped into the wagon and went off. I tried to get the whip away from him, but he was terribly strong, and he hurt my wrist so much I had to let go."

Beverly Randolph's face was a mixture of astonishment, amus.e.m.e.nt and horror.

"You don't mean that you tackled the fellow yourself?" he demanded incredulously.

Marjorie nodded. Now that the excitement was over she was beginning to feel a little startled at what she had done.

"I had to," she said humbly; "there wasn't any one else to do it.

Hortense thinks it was very unladylike, but I don't see what else I could have done. I couldn't just stand by and do nothing while that poor horse was being ill-treated."

"No, I don't suppose you could," said Beverly, smiling. "I don't think I would do it again, though; you might get hurt. h.e.l.lo! what's the matter?--don't you feel well?"

For Marjorie had suddenly grown very pale, and leaned against the lamp-post.

"It's--it's my wrist," she faltered; "it hurts dreadfully, and--and I think I feel a little faint."

Without a moment's hesitation Beverly drew the girl's arm through his.

"Come along," he said, peremptorily, and without another word he conducted the wounded soldier back to the hotel. Marjorie, too, was silent; the pain in her wrist was very bad, and she had to bite her lips hard to keep back the rising tears. Hortense, still covered with shame and confusion, followed close behind. At the door of the lift Beverly paused.

"Is your aunt at home?" he inquired.

"No," said Marjorie, unsteadily; "she and Elsie have gone to New Haven for the football game."

"To be sure they have; I had forgotten. Your cousin told me they were going this afternoon. Well, I think I will take you to our apartment.

My mother is used to sprains and bruises, and will know what to do for your wrist."

Marjorie protested that she could not think of disturbing Mrs. Randolph, but Beverly, who appeared to be accustomed to having his own way, remained firm, and in the end his companion was forced to yield, much to the distress and horror of Hortense, who considered that the story was already known to more persons than Mrs. Carleton would approve.

Mrs. Randolph and her brother-in-law were having tea in the former's pretty sitting-room, when the door was unceremoniously flung open, and Beverly appeared on the threshold, leading in a trembling, white-faced girl, who immediately collapsed into the nearest chair, and looked as if she were about to faint.

"It's Miss Marjorie Graham, Mother," Beverly explained, "and she has hurt her wrist. Her aunt is away, so I brought her in here. Oh, here's Uncle George; what luck! This is my uncle Dr. Randolph, Miss Marjorie; he is a surgeon, you know, and he'll fix you up in no time."

"To be sure I will if I can," said a pleasant voice, not unlike Beverly's. "Let me see what the trouble is. Ah, this is the hand, isn't it?" And Marjorie felt her wrist taken in firm, kind fingers. She winced at the touch, but the doctor's next words were rea.s.suring.

"I see; only a slight sprain, nothing serious. Have you some arnica, Barbara, and some linen that I can use for a bandage?"

"How did it happen, dear?" Mrs. Randolph inquired sympathetically, as Marjorie leaned back in her chair, with a sigh of intense relief, and the doctor applied a cooling lotion to her aching wrist.

Marjorie's cheeks were crimson again, but not for a moment did she hesitate about telling the truth. Beverly had gone off to his own room, having left his charge in safe hands.

"I am afraid it was my own fault," she said, honestly. "I saw a boy ill-treating a poor old horse, and tried to stop him by getting the whip away from him, but he was much stronger than I, and in the struggle I suppose he must have twisted my wrist. I am afraid your son and my aunt's maid both think I was very unladylike."

Mrs. Randolph and the doctor exchanged amused glances, and the latter said kindly:

"I wish more people were moved by the same spirit, though I don't know that I should advise young girls to attack rough drivers. I imagine you have not been very long in New York or you would be accustomed to such sights."

"No," said Marjorie, much relieved. "I have only been in New York three weeks. My home is on a ranch in Arizona, but I have been accustomed to horses all my life. I think my father would almost kill any boy who dared to treat one of ours like that."

"I daresay he would. Your father raises horses, I suppose?"

"Yes, and cattle, too. I have lived on the ranch ever since I was two years old, and New York seems very strange in some ways."

"It must," said Dr. Randolph gravely, but his eyes twinkled, and Marjorie felt sure he was trying not to laugh. "There, I think the wrist will do nicely now. You can wet this bandage again in an hour, and if I am not mistaken the pain will be gone by that time. I must be going now, Barbara; I have two patients to see before dinner. I'll call for you and Beverly in the car at nine to-morrow morning; that will give us plenty of time to make New Haven before lunch." And with a hurried leave-taking the doctor departed, leaving Mrs. Randolph and Marjorie alone together.

The next half-hour was a very pleasant one. Mrs. Randolph would not allow the girl to go back to her own apartment until the pain in her wrist had subsided, and she made her lie on the sofa, and petted her in a way that recalled Mother and Aunt Jessie so strongly that Marjorie had some difficulty in keeping back the homesick tears. Almost before she knew it, she was chatting away to this new acquaintance as if they had been old friends.

"I hope I shall get accustomed to New York ways soon," she said humbly.

"I am afraid I make a great many mistakes, and they distress my aunt and cousin very much. You see, it is all so different on the ranch. I suppose your son told you how I spoke to him that morning in the park, and asked him to take me home. It seemed quite a natural thing to do, because I knew he lived in this hotel, but Aunt Julia was dreadfully shocked."

Mrs. Randolph laughed.

"Beverly was not at all shocked," she said. "He and I have rather old-fas.h.i.+oned ideas about some things; we like little girls to be natural."

"I am so glad you think me a little girl still," said Marjorie in a sudden burst of confidence. "All the girls here seem so grown-up, and I don't want to grow up just yet; I am only fourteen."

"My little girl would have been just about your age if she had lived,"

said Mrs. Randolph, with a rather sad smile. "I am sure I should not have begun to think of her as grown-up yet."

Marjorie was interested. She would have liked to ask Mrs. Randolph about her little girl, but feared the subject might be a painful one, and just that moment Beverly came back, and the conversation turned on other matters. In a little while Marjorie rose to go.

"You have been very kind to me," she said to Mrs. Randolph. "My wrist feels ever so much better already. I do hope I haven't been a bother."

"Not a bit of it," Mrs. Randolph declared, laughing. "On the contrary, I have enjoyed your call very much, and I hope you will come often, for I am very fond of little girls. By the way, what are you going to do to-morrow?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Marjorie; "walk and read and study, I suppose.

Aunt Julia said I might drive in the afternoon, but the horses go so slowly I always feel as though I should like to get out of the carriage and run. Galloping over the prairie is much more fun."

Mrs. Randolph and her son both laughed, and Beverly remarked rather indignantly: