The Girl from Arizona Part 13

"DEAREST AUNT JESSIE:

"I am at home alone this evening; Uncle Henry and Aunt Julia have gone out to dinner, and Elsie is at a party. I am going to write you a long, long letter, and try to tell you every single thing that has happened.

"I have been here just a week, and I think I am beginning to get more accustomed to things. It is all very interesting, but some of it does seem a little queer, and, oh, how I do wish I could have a good talk with Mother or you, and ask you to explain the things I don't understand. Aunt Julia is very kind, but I could never talk to her as I do to you and Mother. The things that puzzle me most are what it is proper to do and what isn't.

For one thing, they say it isn't proper to speak to people unless one has been introduced. At home we always speak to every one whether they are in the 'Social Register' or not. The Social Register is a book, and Elsie says the names of all the nice people are in it, and when her mother wants to find out who people are, and whether or not she wants to have Elsie know them she just looks for their names in the Social Register, and if she finds them there she knows they are all right.

Then it isn't considered proper for girls to go out by themselves in New York. I have seen some nice-looking girls alone in the streets, but Elsie says they can't be the kind one wants to know.

Hortense, the French maid, always goes out with Elsie and me, and even carries our books to school for us. Hortense is very nice, but it is rather a bother having her always about, and she wants to do a great many more things for me than I really need. But the greatest difficulty of all is that Elsie isn't fond of walking, and I do miss my tramps dreadfully. We walk to school and back every day, but it isn't far, and in the afternoon Elsie is always having engagements. So I go driving with Aunt Julia, and, oh, but it does seem slow! Aunt Julia hates to drive fast, and I sometimes feel as if I would give anything to jump out of the carriage and have one good run. I know I could easily keep up with those horses if it were only proper to run behind the carriage, but of course it isn't.

"I ought not to object to going out with Aunt Julia, for she has been very good to me. She is having some perfectly lovely dresses made for me, and has bought me two simply wonderful hats. I am not sure whether Mother would quite approve of all my new clothes. Some of them do look very grown-up, but then the girls here are all much more grown-up than I had any idea they would be.

Elsie puts up her hair, and wanted me to put mine up, too, but I knew Mother wouldn't like it, and Uncle Henry said I was right.

"I have been at school every day since Monday, and like it very much indeed. It is not a large school, only a cla.s.s of twelve girls. The teacher's name is Miss Lothrop, and Elsie and several of the other girls have been going to her since they were quite little. Miss Lothrop is lovely, and all the girls have been very kind and polite to me. The two I like best are Lulu Bell and Winifred Hamilton. Elsie says they are both very young for their age, and I think perhaps that is the reason I like them better than some of the others. Winifred is only thirteen, but she is just as sweet as she can be, and Lulu is awfully pretty, and a great favorite. Carol Hastings is another girl in the cla.s.s, and Elsie's most intimate friend. She is only fourteen, but seems much older. I wonder why New York girls seem to care so much about boys. I like a nice boy ever so much myself, but I can't see the use of giggling and looking silly every time his name is mentioned. Carol Hastings came here to dinner last night, and when Beverly Randolph came over to our table to speak to us, she was so silly I was really ashamed of her. I spoke to Elsie about it afterwards, and she said Carol was a goose, but I think she is a little bit silly herself sometimes.

I wrote Mother all about Beverly Randolph, and how much I liked him. I would give anything to have a brother just like him. He adores his mother, and I don't wonder, for she is lovely. He says she is so jolly, and is always interested in everything he is interested in; even the college games. His father died when he was little, and I suppose this is one reason why he and his mother are so much to each other. There is an uncle, who is a doctor, but he only comes to dine with them sometimes, and lives somewhere else. Mrs. Randolph has one of the sweetest faces I have ever seen--yours and Mothers excepted--and she looks very young to be the mother of a big boy of eighteen. She dresses in black, and looks rather sad sometimes, but I suppose that is when she is thinking of her husband.

"Elsie is very clever, and Aunt Julia admires her tremendously. She says Elsie has always been the brightest girl in her cla.s.ses and that she recites Shakespeare quite wonderfully. I haven't heard her recite yet, but she plays the piano very well, and takes music lessons twice a week. She speaks French, too, and is beginning to study German. Of course I am not nearly as far advanced as she is, but Miss Lothrop says I am not backward for my age, and that makes me very happy. I was so proud when she asked me if I had a governess at home, and I told her Father and Mother had taught me everything I knew. I don't think Elsie liked my saying that; she says I mustn't talk about our being poor, but I am sure I can't see why she should object. However, I have promised to try not to say anything she doesn't like; they have all been so good to me that I do want to please them if I can.

"Last Tuesday was Aunt Julia's birthday, and she gave a family dinner party. She has a good many relatives, and they all came. I should think Elsie would love having so many cousins, but she says she doesn't care very much about many of them.

Aunt Julia's two sisters were here, and I thought the oldest one--Mrs. Lamont--was lovely. Her daughter, Miss Annie, came with her, and she was awfully nice and jolly. She is quite old--about twenty-five I think--and she works downtown in a settlement. I didn't know what a settlement was, but Elsie explained that it is a place where ladies go to live among very poor ignorant people, and try to help them. She and her mother send some of their old clothes to Miss Lamont, and she gives them to the poor women at the settlement. Aunt Julia's other sister is Mrs. Ward. She is quite stout, and talks a great deal about what is good for her to eat and what isn't. She was nice, but I didn't like her as much as the Lamonts. Her husband is fat, too, and is always saying funny things that make people laugh. They have two little girls, but they were not allowed to come because Tuesday was a school night, and they are never allowed to go out anywhere except on Fridays and Sat.u.r.days. Elsie can go out any night she likes, because she is so clever that Aunt Julia says it doesn't matter whether she misses her lessons one day or not. There is a Ward boy, too, but he is at Yale. Elsie likes him best of all her cousins, and she says he is very fond of her, too. Aunt Julia says all the boys admire Elsie very much, but I think she is mistaken about Beverly Randolph. He has such an honest face that he can't hide his feelings, and when Elsie and Carol giggled so much that night, and talked so very grown-up, I am sure he was trying not to laugh.

"You can't begin to imagine how glad I was to get your and Mother's precious letters. I read them over and over until I almost knew them by heart, and slept with Mother's first one under my pillow all night. Father's letter was splendid too, and I was so interested to hear all about the new colts.

I am so glad Undine is proving such a comfort. I knew you couldn't help loving her, she is such a dear, and she promised to try to take my place. I told the girls at school about her, and they thought it the most interesting thing they had ever heard. Lulu Bell says she is going to tell her aunt, who is an auth.o.r.ess, about it, and ask her to put Undine in a book. Won't it be too interesting if she really does?

"O dear! there is the clock striking ten, and I have been writing ever since half-past eight. I must stop now, and go to bed, or I shall be sleepy to-morrow morning. Ten o'clock at night used to seem very late indeed at home, but it seems quite early here. Elsie doesn't expect to get home from her party before half past eleven. Uncle Henry doesn't approve of late hours for school-girls, but Aunt Julia says everybody in New York keeps them, so it can't be helped. I forgot to say the party is at Bessie Winston's. She is one of the girls at Miss Lothrop's, and one of Elsie's intimate friends. I was invited, too, but Aunt Julia wouldn't let me accept, because my new dresses haven't come home yet. Elsie says I wouldn't have enjoyed it, anyway, because I can't dance. She goes to a dancing cla.s.s every Sat.u.r.day morning, and Aunt Julia says she may have me go too after Christmas. I think I should like dancing, for the sake of the exercise if nothing else. Oh, how I do long for exercise! Elsie rides in summer, but her pony is at their country place on Long Island, and they don't think it worth while to bring it in to New York. Aunt Julia says Elsie has so many other things to do in winter she has no time for riding. What wouldn't I give for one good canter on Roland! I can't help envying the girls I see riding in the park, though none of them look as if they were enjoying it as much as I should. They all ride side-saddle, and I don't believe it can be nearly as pleasant as riding astride, but Aunt Julia told me not to say so, because it isn't considered the thing to ride astride here. I saw Beverly Randolph riding in the park this afternoon, and he really did look as if he enjoyed it. His home is in Virginia, and he says the people there are very fond of horses.

Lulu says Mrs. Randolph owns a large plantation, and I suppose a plantation is something like a ranch.

"Now I really must stop writing, for my hand is getting tired, and I have made two big blots on this page. So good night, Auntie darling. If I could send all the love that is in my heart, I am afraid no postman would be able to carry the letter, it would be so heavy. So you must just imagine it is there. I am really very happy, though I can't help feeling homesick sometimes, especially at night. I am going to work hard, and try to learn so much this winter that you will all be proud of me when I come home. I have already begun counting the weeks; there are just twenty-eight and a half till the first of June. A winter does seem a very long time, but this week has gone by faster than I expected. I will write to Mother on Sunday, and your next letters ought to be here by Monday. Letters are the best thing in the world when one is so far away from home, so please all write just as often as you can to

"Your own loving "MARJORIE."

CHAPTER XI

MARJORIE ENGAGES IN BATTLE

"THE most glorious thing is going to happen, Marjorie," announced Elsie, as her cousin came into the drawing-room to breakfast one November morning, about two weeks after the writing of that long letter to Aunt Jessie.

"What is it?" inquired Marjorie, regarding Elsie's radiant face and sparkling eyes, with interest. Elsie was not, as a rule, a very enthusiastic young person.

"The most delightful invitation you ever heard of," Elsie explained with a glance at the letter her mother was reading. "It's from my cousin Percy Ward. You know he's a soph.o.m.ore at Yale, and he wants Mamma and me to come to New Haven for the football game next Sat.u.r.day. It's the big Yale-Harvard game, you know, and I've been simply crazy to go, but it's almost impossible to get tickets. It really was angelic of Percy to get two for us, and he wants us to come up on Friday afternoon so we can go to the dance that evening. He has engaged a room for us at the hotel."

"It must be wonderful to see a great match like that," declared Marjorie, with hearty appreciation of her cousin's good fortune. "I have seen pictures of the college games, and Father always reads the football news in the papers. He is a Harvard man himself, you know, and used to be on the team."

"I'm sorry you can't go with us," said Elsie, regretfully, "but of course Percy couldn't get more than two tickets. Perhaps you wouldn't enjoy it much, though. It can't be much fun unless you know a lot of the boys. Percy is such a dear; he is sure to introduce me to all his friends."

"I wish your father had not gone to Washington on that tiresome business just now," remarked Mrs. Carleton, laying down her nephew's letter, and looking a little worried. "I should have liked to consult him before answering Percy."

"Why, Mamma, you surely don't think he would object!" cried Elsie in dismay. "What possible reason could he have for not wanting us to go?"

"Oh, no reason whatever, of course, dear. I was only thinking of Marjorie. I am not sure that he would like the idea of her being left here alone while we are away."

"Oh, bother! Marjorie won't mind--will you, Marjorie? Besides, she needn't be alone; Hortense can sleep in my room, and it's only for one night."

"Please don't worry about me, Aunt Julia," said Marjorie, blushing. "I shall get on all right, I am sure, and it would be terrible to have you and Elsie miss the game on my account. I can have my meals up here while you are away, and go out with Hortense."

But Mrs. Carleton did not look quite satisfied.

"You are very sweet and unselfish, dear," she said, "but I wish Percy had bought another ticket; then we could have taken you with us. I cannot bear to disappoint Elsie, so I suppose I shall have to accept the invitation, though I dislike the idea of leaving you behind, especially at a time when your uncle is away, too."

So the matter was settled, and as soon as breakfast was over Mrs.

Carleton sat down to write her note of acceptance, while the two girls started for school, accompanied as usual by Hortense. Elsie was in high spirits, and entertained her cousin with a vivid description of the delight and excitement of a college football match.

"Not that I have ever seen one myself," she explained. "Papa hates crowds, and has always said it was too difficult to get tickets, and last year Percy couldn't get any either, being only a freshman. Carol Hastings has been, though, and she told me she was never so excited in her life. The Bells are going this year, and have invited Winifred Hamilton and Gertie Rossiter to go with them. I can't see why they want to take Winifred; she is such a baby, and I don't believe a boy will notice her; but she and Lulu are such chums, one never seems able to go anywhere without the other."

"Beverly Randolph and his mother are going, too," said Marjorie, who was making a great effort to keep down the feeling of envious longing, and to show a real interest and sympathy in her cousin's antic.i.p.ations. "He told me so yesterday. His uncle, Dr. Randolph, is going to take them in his automobile."

"Yes, I know; I heard him talking about it. I must be sure to tell him Mamma and I are going, so he will look us up. Oh, here come Bessie and Carol; I must tell them the good news."

Percy Ward's letter arrived on Wednesday morning, and on Friday afternoon soon after luncheon, Mrs. Carleton and Elsie departed for New Haven. Mr. Carleton had been called to Washington on business, and was not expected home before Sat.u.r.day night. Aunt Julia was very kind, and kissed Marjorie with more affection than usual.

"I really hate to leave you," she said regretfully. "If it were not for the disappointment it would have been to Elsie, I would never have accepted. I hope you will not be very lonely."

"Oh, no, I won't," promised Marjorie cheerfully. She was really touched by her aunt's solicitude, and had almost, if not quite, succeeded in banishing the feelings of envy and disappointment. "I've got some hard lessons for Monday, and I want to have them all perfect, so I can write Mother that I haven't missed in any of my cla.s.ses for a week. Then Hortense says she likes walking, so we can have some fine long tramps.

To-morrow night will be here before I've begun to realize that you are away."

But despite her cheerful a.s.surances, Marjorie's heart was not very light when she accompanied her aunt and cousin to the lift, and saw them start, Elsie's face wreathed in smiles, and even Aunt Julia looking as if she had not altogether outgrown her interest in a football game. She went slowly back to her own room, and taking up her Greek history, determined to forget present disappointment, and spend the next hour with the Greek heroes. But to make up one's mind to do a thing, and to carry out one's good intentions are two very different matters. Marjorie conscientiously tried to fix her thoughts on "The Siege of Troy," but the recollection of Elsie's radiant face kept obtruding itself between her eyes and the printed page, and at the end of half an hour she threw down her book in despair.

"There isn't any use," she said to herself, with a sigh; "I can't remember a single date. I'll ring for Hortense, and ask her to take me for a walk. Perhaps by the time we come back my wits will have left off wool-gathering, and I shall have a good long evening for studying and writing letters."

Hortense was quite ready for a walk, and really the afternoon was much less forlorn than Marjorie had antic.i.p.ated. The French maid had taken a fancy to the little Western girl, who was always kind and friendly in her manner, and did not--as she told a friend--treat her as if she were "_seulement une machine_." Elsie never talked to Hortense during their walks, but this afternoon Marjorie was longing for companionship, and she and the maid chatted together like old friends. They were both young and far away from home, and perhaps that fact had a good deal to do towards drawing them together. Marjorie was always glad to talk of her life on the ranch, and Hortense told in her turn of the little French village, where she had spent her childhood, and of the widowed mother and little brothers and sisters, to whom she sent more than half of her earnings. She spoke in broken English, with here and there a French expression thrown in, but Marjorie had no difficulty in understanding, and her interest and sympathy for the plucky little French girl, who had left home and friends to earn her own living, grew rapidly.

They took a long walk, for Hortense was almost as fond of tramping as Marjorie herself, and it was almost dusk when they at last came in sight of the big hotel. Then Hortense suddenly remembered an errand she had to do for Mrs. Carleton, and Marjorie--who was not in the least tired--declared her intention of accompanying her.

"It is not far," the maid explained; "only to Sixth Avenue. We shall not be more than a quarter of an hour."

The errand accomplished they turned their steps in a homeward direction, and were about half way up Fifty-seventh Street, on their way to the Plaza, when Marjorie's attention was attracted by a horse and cart, which had come to a standstill only a few feet in front of them. The cart was loaded with boxes and packages, and the horse, which was a mere skeleton, and looked as if his working days had long been over, had evidently completely given out. The driver, a boy of sixteen or seventeen, had sprung down from his seat, and was endeavoring to discover the cause of the trouble.

"Oh, look, Hortense," cried Marjorie, her quick sympathies instantly aroused, "look at that poor horse. He isn't strong enough to drag that heavy wagon, with all those boxes in it. Oh, what a shame! That boy mustn't beat him so--he mustn't!" And before the horrified maid could interpose, impulsive Marjorie had sprung forward to remonstrate.

"Stop beating that horse," she commanded, with flashing eyes; "can't you see he isn't able to go any farther with that load? You ought to be ashamed to load a poor creature like that in such a way!"

The boy stared at her for a moment in stupid amazement; then an ugly look came into his face. He gave one quick glance up and down the street, to make sure there was no policeman in sight; and turned on Marjorie with rough fury.

"You leave me alone, will you? It ain't none of your biz what I do with this here horse." And before the indignant Marjorie could protest he had again laid the whip lash, sharply across the poor animal's back.

Then for one moment Marjorie forgot everything--forgot that she was in the streets of a big city--forgot all Aunt Julia's lectures and Elsie's warnings--and with one quick movement she seized the whip handle, trying with all her strength to drag it away from the boy. She was strong, but her antagonist was stronger, and the end of that momentary struggle was a sharp cry of pain from Marjorie, a muttered imprecation from the driver, and in another second he had sprung into his seat, and horse and wagon were clattering away down the street.