The Girl from Arizona Part 25

"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 she gave her friend touched Mrs. Randolph, and perhaps comforted her more than any words would have done.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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 what you 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 subst.i.tute, 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. .h.i.therto 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 st.i.tch. 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, flus.h.i.+ng 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 told her. 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 Ap.r.o.ns'?"

"Yes, I have read both. Our home is on the James 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.