The Girl from Arizona Part 24

"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 n.o.body 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 a great 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."

CHAPTER XVII

BEVERLY SINGS "MANDALAY"

IT was 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 nothing more 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 st.i.tch, 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.

Randolph asked her if she liked reading aloud, and when Marjorie a.s.sured 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 embarra.s.sment 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, and then 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 paG.o.da, 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.