The Girl from Arizona Part 23

"Marjorie," she began in a rather fretful tone, as she closed the door, and sank wearily into the arm-chair, "I am very much distressed by what Elsie tells me. I have come to ask you what it all means."

Marjorie raised a swollen, tear-stained face from the pillows.

"What has Elsie told you?" she inquired anxiously.

Mrs. Carleton pressed her hand to her forehead.

"O dear!" she sighed, "my head aches so this morning, and I do dislike all these quarrels and arguments. I did hope you and Elsie would get on together without quarreling."

"I don't want to quarrel," protested Marjorie; "what does Elsie say about me?"

"She says you have been very unkind and unjust to her. She won't tell me what it is all about. I tried to make her tell, but Elsie is so honorable; she hates tale-bearing. But I know you have hurt her pride, and made her very unhappy."

Marjorie was silent; what could she say? And after a moment her aunt went on in her fretful, complaining voice.

"I don't believe you have the least idea what a n.o.ble, splendid girl Elsie is. It was rather hard for her at first when she heard you were coming to spend the winter, for of course it couldn't help making some difference. She has never had to share anything with any one else before. But she was so sweet and unselfish about it, and I did hope things might go on as they had begun. But now you have begun to quarrel, and I suppose there will be nothing but trouble and unpleasantness all winter."

"She was so sweet and unselfish about it!" How those words hurt Marjorie, and all the time she had been thinking that Elsie had looked forward to meeting her almost, if not quite as much, as she had looked forward to knowing the cousin who was "the next best thing to a sister."

It was only by a mighty effort that she managed to choke back the flood of scalding tears, which threatened to overwhelm her.

"I'm very sorry, Aunt Julia," she said tremulously; "I didn't mean to quarrel with Elsie. If she had told you what it was about perhaps you would have understood."

"Well, she wouldn't tell," said Mrs. Carleton, crossly, "so there is no use in talking about that. All I want to say to you is that I am very much annoyed, and sincerely hope nothing so unpleasant will happen again. Elsie has gone to dancing-school, and Hortense has gone with her, as my head was so bad. Now I am going back to my room to lie down for a while; perhaps I may be better by luncheon time."

That was the most unhappy day Marjorie had ever spent in her life. It seemed to her as if the morning would never end, and when her aunt appeared at luncheon she still wore an air of injured dignity, and entertained Marjorie during the meal, with a long account of Elsie's many accomplishments, a subject of which her niece was becoming heartily tired, although she would scarcely have admitted the fact even to herself. Soon after luncheon Mr. Carleton telephoned to say that he would come uptown in time to drive with his wife, and Aunt Julia proposed that Marjorie should go for a walk with Hortense. The girl's own head was aching by this time, and she was glad of a brisk walk in the keen, frosty air, but she was so unusually silent and preoccupied, that the maid asked her anxiously if she "had the homesickness."

"Yes," said Marjorie, with a catch in her voice, "I've got it badly to-day."

"Ah, I understand," murmured Hortense, softly, "Mademoiselle is like me--I, too, often have the homesickness."

Elsie did not reach home till after five, as Carol's mother had taken the two girls to the theater, and even then she took no notice of Marjorie, but went at once to her mother's room, where Marjorie heard her giving a long and animated account of the play she had seen.

"By the way," remarked Mr. Carleton at dinner that evening, "I forgot to ask about the Club--how did the poems turn out?"

There was a moment's embarra.s.sed silence, and Marjorie's heart began to beat very fast; then Elsie spoke.

"They were all very silly," she said, indifferently. "I told Lulu it was nonsense having all the girls write poems."

"Whose poem was the best?" Mr. Carleton asked.

"They made me president of the Club," said Elsie, her eyes bent on her plate; "my poem got the most votes."

"I was sure it would," murmured Mrs. Carleton, with an adoring glance at her clever daughter. "Why didn't you tell us about it before, darling--you knew how interested we would be?"

"Let me see the poem," said Mr. Carleton, good-naturedly; "I should like to judge its merits for myself."

"I can't; I've torn it up." Elsie tried to speak in a tone of complete indifference, but her cheeks were crimson, and her father watched her curiously.

"My darling child, how very foolish!" remonstrated Mrs. Carleton. "You know your father and I always want to see everything you write. Why in the world did you tear it up?"

"Oh, it wasn't any good," said Elsie, with an uneasy glance at Marjorie; "some of the girls thought Lulu's poem was better."

"I don't believe it was, though," Mrs. Carleton maintained with conviction. "Wasn't Elsie's poem much the best, Marjorie?"

It was a dreadful moment for poor Marjorie. She had never told a lie in her life, and yet how could she offend her uncle and aunt, who were doing so much for her, and who both adored Elsie? She cast an appealing glance at her cousin, and remained silent.

"Oh, you needn't ask Marjorie," remarked Elsie, with a disagreeable laugh; "she doesn't like my poem. She only got five votes herself, so I suppose it's rather hard for her to judge of other people's poetry."

Mr. Carleton frowned, and Mrs. Carleton looked distressed, but no more was said on the subject, for which Marjorie felt sincerely thankful.

The next day was Sunday, and the most unhappy, homesick day Marjorie had spent in New York. Her uncle was the only member of the family who continued to treat her as usual. Elsie scarcely spoke to her, and Aunt Julia, though evidently making an effort to be kind, showed so plainly by her manner that she was both hurt and displeased, that poor Marjorie's heart grew heavier and heavier. They all went to church in the morning, and in the afternoon Elsie went for a drive with her mother, and Mr. Carleton retired to his own room to read and write letters. Marjorie began her usual home letter, but had not written half a page when she broke down, and spent the next half hour in having a good cry, which was perhaps the most satisfactory thing she could have done under the circ.u.mstances.

She had just dried her eyes, and having made a brave resolution not to be so foolish again, was sitting down with the intention of going on with her letter, when she heard her uncle's voice calling her from the sitting-room.

"Come here, Marjorie," said Mr. Carleton, kindly, as his niece appeared in answer to his summons. "Sit down and let us have a little talk before the others come home."

Marjorie complied. She hoped devoutly that her uncle would not notice that she had been crying, but perhaps Uncle Henry's eyes were sharper than his family always suspected.

"Marjorie," he said abruptly, "I want you to tell me what this trouble is between you and Elsie."

Marjorie gave a little gasp, and her cheeks grew pink.

"I--I'm afraid I can't tell you, Uncle Henry," she faltered; "you had better ask Elsie."

"I have asked her, and so has your aunt, but she refused to tell us anything except that you have quarreled about something, and that you have treated her rather unkindly."

Marjorie's eyes flashed indignantly, and she bit her lips to keep back the angry words.

"Now I happen to know a good deal about these little quarrels of Elsie's," Mr. Carleton went on quietly. "She is a good girl, and a clever one, too, but she has her faults and I have no reason to suppose that you are any more to blame than she in this case. All I want is a clear account of what happened, and then I can settle this tempest in a teapot, which I can see has been making you both unhappy for the past two days."

By this time Marjorie had succeeded in controlling her temper, and her voice was quite clear and steady as she answered--

"I am very sorry, Uncle Henry, but if Elsie hasn't told you what the trouble is, I am afraid I can't tell either. Please don't be angry, or think me disrespectful, but I can't tell; it wouldn't be fair."

Mr. Carleton was evidently displeased.

"Very well," he said, turning away coldly, and taking up a book, "I have no more to say on the matter. I am sorry, for I hoped you would have sufficient confidence in your aunt and me to trust us, and confide in us. I do not wish to force you to tell us anything against your will, but you must remember that your mother has placed you under our care."

The tears rushed to Marjorie's eyes.

"Oh, Uncle Henry!" she began, then checked herself abruptly, and, with a half suppressed sob, turned and fled back to her own room.

It was more than an hour later when Elsie presented herself at her cousin's door.

"May I come in, Marjorie?" she inquired in a rather conciliatory tone.

Marjorie looked up from the letter she was writing; her face brightening with sudden hope.