The Girl from Arizona Part 34

Mrs. Randolph had grown very white; she was trembling, too, but she laid a firm hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Marjorie," she cried sharply, "what does this mean? Why are you telling me all this? Something has happened, I know it has--oh, Marjorie, for G.o.d's sake tell me what it is! My little girl is dead; they brought her home to me, though they would not let me see her dear face. Marjorie, why do you cry so? You must tell me at once, do you hear? I say at once."

"Oh, Mrs. Randolph, darling Mrs. Randolph, it isn't anything sad, indeed it isn't," sobbed Marjorie, with her arms about her friend's neck. "It's something beautiful; more beautiful and wonderful than you can ever imagine. I can't say any more, but Beverly will be here very soon, and he will tell you. Try to think of the very greatest joy that could possibly come to any one, and perhaps you will begin to have an idea what it is."

Marjorie paused, conscious of the fact that some one had entered the room. In their excitement neither she nor Mrs. Randolph had noticed the opening of the door, or the sound of an approaching footstep. But now as she lifted her face from her friend's shoulder, Marjorie saw two figures standing on the threshold; they were Dr. Randolph and Beverly. At the same moment Mrs. Randolph also recognized them, and held out her arms to her son.

"Beverly," she cried, "tell me what it is! You know, I see it in your face. Oh, Beverly, my darling, it isn't--it can't be news of Barbara?"

"Yes, Mother, it is!" cried the boy, gathering her in his strong arms.

"Can you bear a great shock, Mother--a great joyful shock?--because if you can, Uncle George and I have something to tell you."

Marjorie waited for no more; such scenes were not for other eyes to see or other ears to hear. With a bound, she was out of the room, and flying across the corridor. In her flight she darted by two other figures without even seeing them; a trembling, white-faced girl clinging nervously to an older woman, whose face was scarcely less white than her own. She had but one thought: to reach her room before the burst of hysterical excitement completely overpowered her. A frantic ring at the Carletons' bell, and then the door was thrown open, and she was clinging to some one--presumably Hortense--crying and laughing both together.

"Oh, Hortense, Hortense," she wailed, "I've told her, and they've come!

You don't think the shock will kill her, do you?"

But it was not Hortense who answered, or who held the hysterical child in loving, motherly arms.

"Marjorie, my dear little Marjorie, don't tremble so! Everything will be all right, my darling, I know it will, and here are Aunt Jessie and I come all the way from Arizona to give you a big surprise."

CHAPTER XXIV

MARJORIE HAS HER WISH

MARJORIE declared afterwards that she was sure that was the happiest moment of her life, but at the time the joyful surprise, coming so soon after the nervous strain of the past hour, proved almost too much for her, and she could do nothing for some time but hold her mother tight, and cry as if her heart would break.

"It's the one thing I've been wishing for every day, and praying for every night since I came to New York," Marjorie said to her aunt, late that evening, when Miss Graham was in bed, and her niece was sitting beside her, holding her hand. "But I never dared hope it would really happen, even when I knew Dr. Randolph had gone to Arizona. We were all so excited about Barbara; it didn't seem as if he or Beverly would be able to think of anything else."

"It was all Undine's doing," said Miss Jessie, smiling. She was looking pale and tired, but very happy and Marjorie gazed at her aunt, with shining eyes.

"You know it was Undine who told her uncle about my accident," the invalid went on. "Dr. Randolph made an examination, and he hopes that I may be much helped by an operation. He is going to bring another surgeon to see me to-morrow, and if they agree in their opinion, I am to go to a hospital."

Miss Graham spoke cheerfully, but there was a slight tremor in her voice, and Marjorie grew suddenly grave. They were both silent for a moment, and then Marjorie said:

"Isn't Beverly a dear, and don't you like Dr. Randolph ever so much, too?"

"I do indeed," said Miss Jessie, heartily. "I shall never forget their kindness during that long journey. As for Undine, she could not have been more devoted to me if she had been my own little niece. It has been a wonderful experience, Marjorie; I never expected to see the East again."

Marjorie bent and kissed her.

"Beautiful things do happen in the world as well as sad ones, don't they?" she said, softly. "When I think of you and Mother being here, and of Mrs. Randolph having found her Barbara, my heart is so full it seems as if it must surely burst. Here comes Mother; perhaps she will be able to tell us how Mrs. Randolph has borne the shock."

Mrs. Graham's news was most rea.s.suring.

"I have seen Beverly," she said, "and he says his mother is quite calm now. At first they were anxious about her, but only for a little while.

Beverly says his uncle thinks it was a fortunate thing you were able to prepare her a little before they came, Marjorie; otherwise it would have been more difficult to break the news to her."

Marjorie gave a long sigh of relief.

"I'm so glad it wasn't wrong," she said. "I was horribly frightened after I had begun, but when Mrs. Randolph showed me that picture, it came to me all at once to tell her about Undine. I thought that if she heard of one girl who was saved from the earthquake, she might be able to believe that another girl was saved, too."

Mrs. Graham and Miss Jessie both smiled, and then Mrs. Graham said she must obey the doctor's instructions, and see that her sister-in-law was kept quiet, and went to sleep early.

Marjorie and her mother had a long talk that night, after Aunt Jessie was asleep, and the girl opened her heart as she had not done since leaving home, and Mrs. Graham learned of many things that she had not been told in letters.

"I think Elsie really does like me now," finished Marjorie, when she had told of the many heartaches caused by the fear that her cousin did not like her. "She has been very sweet since I came back from Virginia, and just as kind and sympathetic as she could be."

Mrs. Graham looked pleased.

"Elsie has been spoiled," she said, "but I believe she has the right stuff in her, after all. I am glad you have told me all these things, dear, although I understand your reasons for not writing them. You have had a harder time than I suspected, but I don't think it has done you any harm. Do you know, Marjorie, I am inclined to be rather proud of my little girl?"

Those last words of her mother's filled Marjorie's cup to the brim, and I doubt if in all the great city that night, there were two happier beings than she and Barbara Randolph.

But it was not all happiness for Marjorie during the next few days.

There followed hours of keen anxiety about Aunt Jessie, and for a time she forgot everything else while she waited in suspense for the verdict of the two great surgeons.

It was on an afternoon three days later, that she and Barbara sat together in the Randolphs' parlor, waiting for the news, which was to tell them whether Jessie Graham was to go through life a helpless cripple, or be restored to health and strength once more. The day before she had been taken to a private hospital, and the girls knew that an operation was to be performed that afternoon. They were alone, for Mrs.

Graham was with her sister-in-law, and Mrs. Randolph--almost as anxious as the others--had gone to the hospital for news, promising to return as soon as possible. So Marjorie and Barbara sat together side by side on the sofa, holding each other's hands, and waiting in almost breathless suspense.

"Mother will be sure to let us know just as soon as there's anything to tell," whispered Barbara, anxious to cheer her friend. "She says Uncle George told her he was very hopeful."

"I know," said Marjorie, "he told us all so, but I can't help being frightened when I think of all it means to Aunt Jessie. She doesn't say much, but I know how she must feel. Just think how we would feel if we hadn't walked a step for more than eight years."

"Where is your cousin this afternoon?" inquired Barbara, by way of changing the subject. She was almost as anxious as Marjorie, but she had been living at high pressure for so long, it was a relief to get down to commonplaces.

"I don't know," said Marjorie; "she was going out, but it rained so hard Aunt Julia wouldn't let her go, on account of her cold. Aunt Julia is very fussy about colds."

"Don't you think she would like to come in here with us?" suggested Barbara. "She may be lonely all by herself."

"I don't believe she is lonely," said Marjorie, doubtfully, "but if you think she might like to come--"

A ring at the door-bell brought Marjorie's sentence to an abrupt end, and both girls sprang to their feet.

"I'll see who it is," said Barbara; "it may be a message from Mother."

And she flew to open the door, while Marjorie sank back in her seat, feeling suddenly cold and sick with fear.

But it was not a message from Mrs. Randolph; it was Elsie.

"I just came to ask if you had heard anything yet," she said, looking rather embarra.s.sed, as she noticed the expression of disappointment on Barbara's face.

"No, we haven't," Barbara answered; "we thought it might be a message when we heard the bell. Won't you come in?"

Elsie hesitated.