AUNT JULIA AND ELSIE
"ELSIE, my dear child, do you know what time it is? Nearly half past
five, and you haven't started to dress. Your father will be so annoyed
if you are not ready when he arrives."
Mrs. Carleton, a small, fair woman, with a rather worried, fretful
expression, paused in the doorway of her daughter's room, and regarded
the delinquent with anxiety not unmixed with dismay. Elsie, arrayed in a
pink kimono, was lying comfortably on the sofa, deep in the pages of an
interesting story-book. At her mother's words she threw down her book,
and rose with a yawn. She was a tall girl with dark eyes and hair, and
she would have been decidedly pretty if she too had not looked rather
cross.
"Is it really so late?" she said, indifferently. "Why didn't Hortense
call me? I had no idea what time it was."
"But you ought to have known, dear," Mrs. Carleton protested gently. "I
don't suppose Hortense knew you wanted to be called, but I will ring
for her at once. You will hurry, won't you, darling? What excuse can I
possibly make to your father if he asks for you and finds you are not
ready?"
"Oh, don't worry, Mamma. You know papa only scolds because he thinks it
his duty; he doesn't really care. Besides, the train will probably be
late; those Western trains always are."
Mrs. Carleton rang the bell for the maid, whose room was in a different
part of the hotel, and went to the closet in quest of her daughter's
evening dress.
"I will help you till Hortense comes," she said. "You really must hurry,
Elsie. It is not as if your father were coming alone; he will expect you
to be ready to greet Marjorie."
Elsie shrugged her shoulders indifferently.
"As if a girl who has been living on a cattle ranch in Arizona would
care whether I were dressed or not," she said. "Probably where she comes
from people wear kimonos all day long, and never even heard of dressing
for the evening."
Mrs. Carleton sighed, and the worried expression deepened in her blue
eyes.
"I really wish, darling, that you would try to be a little more gracious
about this. Of course it is a trial, but your father has made up his
mind that Marjorie shall spend the winter with us, and it isn't going to
make things any pleasanter to be constantly finding fault about them."
"I wasn't finding fault," retorted Elsie, who had by this time taken off
the kimono, and begun brushing out her long hair. "I only said Marjorie
Graham wouldn't care a fig what I had on, and I don't believe she will.
I don't intend to be disagreeable to her, but you know what an awful
nuisance it's going to be, and how I hate it. Think of having to take
her about everywhere with me, and introduce her to all my friends."
"My dear, she is your own first cousin. Besides, I am sure she is a nice
child--your father speaks so affectionately of her in his letters--and
her mother is a lovely woman. I was very fond of her when we were girls
together."
"Oh, I dare say she is all right," Elsie admitted grudgingly, "but that
doesn't alter the fact of its being an awful bother to have her here for
a whole winter. You know how papa fusses. He will be sure to get some
idea in his head about my not paying Marjorie enough attention, and he
will expect me to take her everywhere. Oh, I hate it, I just hate it!"
And Elsie's voice actually trembled with vexation.
Mrs. Carleton sighed again.
"I am very sorry, dear," she began, but the entrance of the maid at this
moment, put an end to the conversation, and she left the room, with a
final admonition to her daughter to hurry as much as possible.
But alas! it was too late for hurrying. Mrs. Carleton had only just
entered the drawing-room, when she heard a key turned in the outer door
of the apartment, followed by the sound of a familiar voice calling
cheerfully--
"Julia, Elsie, where are you? Here we are, safe and sound!"
With a rapidly beating heart Mrs. Carleton hurried forward to greet her
husband and his niece.
"My dear Henry, your train must have been just on time," she exclaimed
rather nervously. "We had scarcely begun to expect you yet. And so this
is Marjorie. I am very glad to see you, dear; I hope you are not quite
worn out after that dreadful journey."
"I am not the very least bit tired," returned a fresh young voice, and
Marjorie returned her aunt's kiss so heartily that Mrs. Carleton was
rather startled.
"We were twenty minutes late," Mr. Carleton said, in answer to his
wife's remark, but he kissed her affectionately before putting the
question she was dreading.
"And where is Elsie?"
"She will be here in a few moments," Mrs. Carleton explained hurriedly.
"Now do come in and have some tea, or is it too late for tea? I am so
glad to have you back, Henry dear; we have missed you terribly. I am
sure you must be tired even if Marjorie isn't."
"Not so tired as hungry; we had a very poor lunch on the train. It is
rather late for tea, though; we can have an early dinner instead. Where
is that little witch, Elsie? Isn't she coming to see us?"
"Oh, certainly, dear; I told you she would be here in a few moments. Now
I will take Marjorie to her room; she will be glad to wash off some of
those horrid cinders, I am sure." She glanced as she spoke at Marjorie's
linen shirt-waist, and the straw hat, which certainly did not look as if
it had come from a New York milliner.
"Am I not to have the same room with Elsie, Aunt Julia?" Marjorie
inquired, in a tone of some disappointment, as Mrs. Carleton led the
way down a long, narrow entry, with doors on both sides.
"Oh, no, dear; you are to have a nice little room all to yourself. It
was so fortunate that we had this extra room in the apartment. We
intended using it for guests, but when your uncle wrote that he was
bringing you home with him, we decided to give it to you."
"Oh, I hope I am not going to be in the way," said Marjorie, blushing.
"I had no idea I was to have a room to myself, especially when Uncle
Henry told me you were living in a hotel. I wouldn't in the least mind
rooming with Elsie."
"But you are not at all in the way," said Mrs. Carleton, kindly. "We
seldom have guests staying with us, and shall not need the extra room.
This is Elsie's room; yours is just opposite."
At that moment Elsie's door opened, and that young lady emerged,
followed by the French maid, who was still fastening her dress. At sight
of her cousin Marjorie sprang forward, and before Elsie at all realized
what was happening to her, two eager arms were round her neck, and she
was being hugged in a manner that fairly took away her breath.
"Oh, Elsie, I am so glad!" cried Marjorie rapturously. "Isn't it too
wonderful and beautiful that we should really meet at last? Do let me
look at you; I want to see if you are like what I pictured you." And
Marjorie held her astonished cousin off at arms' length, and surveyed
her critically.
"What did you expect me to be like?" Elsie inquired, not without some
curiosity, as she gently extricated herself from Marjorie's embrace. She
had taken in every detail of her cousin's appearance in one glance.
"I don't exactly know--at least it is rather hard to describe," said
Marjorie, with an embarrassed laugh. Something in Elsie's expression was
making her vaguely uncomfortable. "I didn't think you would be quite so
grown up as you are."
"I am nearly fifteen," said Elsie, as if that fact alone were quite
sufficient to account for her "grown up" appearance. "Is Papa in the
drawing-room, Mamma?"
"Yes, darling; run and speak to him; he is expecting you. This is your
room, Marjorie; I hope you will find it comfortable."
"It's a beautiful room," declared Marjorie, heartily, "only--only, are
you quite sure you want me to have it, Aunt Julia?"
"Quite sure," said Mrs. Carleton, smiling. "I suppose your trunk will be
here before long. Hortense will unpack for you, and help you to dress
for dinner."
Marjorie's eyes opened wide in surprise, and she glanced at the
white-capped French maid, who still lingered in the background.
"You are very kind, Aunt Julia," she said politely, "but I don't need
any help; I always do everything for myself."
Mrs. Carleton looked a little embarrassed.
"You may go, Hortense," she said, turning to the maid; "Miss Marjorie
will ring if she wants you. You mustn't let her think you don't need
her, dear," she added in a lower tone, as the maid left the room. "She
is rather inclined to be lazy, and she will take advantage of you if you
are too easy with her."
Marjorie said nothing, but she was both puzzled and uncomfortable. Mrs.
Carleton, however, did not appear to notice that anything was wrong.
"I will leave you for a little while now," she said. "You must make
yourself at home; your uncle and I want you to be very happy here."
The quick tears started to Marjorie's eyes, and she impulsively held out
her hand to her aunt. But Mrs. Carleton did not notice the gesture, and
in another moment she had left the room, closing the door after her. In
the entry she encountered Elsie returning from the interview with her
father. Elsie was not in the best of spirits.
"Papa has sent me to stay with Marjorie," she said in a discontented
whisper. "He says he is afraid she is homesick. Oh, Mamma, did you ever
see such clothes?"
"Never mind about the clothes, dear," said her mother, with forced
cheerfulness; "we shall soon fit her out with new ones. I think she will
really be quite pretty when she is properly dressed."
Elsie shrugged her shoulders, but made no further remarks, and the next
moment she was tapping at her cousin's door.
"Oh, I'm so glad you've come!" was Marjorie's joyful greeting. "Now we
can have a nice talk before my trunk comes. Sit down in this comfortable
chair and I'll take the little one. Isn't this a lovely room, and wasn't
it sweet of your mother to say she hoped I should be happy here? Oh, I
wonder if you can possibly be one half as glad to see me as I am to see
you."
Elsie was puzzled, but she was a little flattered as well. She was not a
general favorite among her companions, and to find a cousin who had
evidently been longing to make her acquaintance was rather an agreeable
experience. So her face brightened considerably, and her voice was quite
pleasant as she remarked, sinking into the comfortable arm-chair
Marjorie had indicated--
"It is very interesting to meet you. I have often heard papa speak of
you and your mother and father."
"Why, of course you have," laughed Marjorie, wondering in her simple way
whether all New York girls of fifteen were as "grown up" as Elsie. "I
don't believe though that you have thought half as much about me as I
have about you. You see, it's different in Arizona. There aren't very
many people, and they all live a long way from each other. Ever since I
can remember I have longed for a girl friend. But with you it must be
very different, going to school and living in a big city. I suppose you
have lots of friends."
"Oh, yes, I have a good many," said Elsie, with her little society air.
"I am not very fond of them all, though; some girls are so stupid."
"I hope you will like me," said Marjorie, a little wistfully. "We ought
to be even more than friends because we are cousins, and I have always
thought that a cousin must be the next best thing to a sister. Don't you
often long for a sister?"
"Why no, I don't," Elsie admitted. "Indeed, I am not sure that I should
care for one at all. I think being an only child is very pleasant,
though of course having an older brother would have its advantages. He
would introduce one to his friends and bring them to the house. Are you
fond of boys?"
"Oh, yes, I like them very well, but I have never known many. In fact, I
haven't known many people of any kind except Indians and Mexicans."
"Indians and Mexicans!" repeated Elsie in a tone of dismay. "How
perfectly awful! You don't mean that you make friends of those dreadful
people we saw on the train coming home from California, do you?"
"They are not all dreadful creatures," said Marjorie, flushing. "They
are not quite like white people, of course, but some of them are very
good. I know a Mexican boy who is just as bright and clever as he can
be. His father is going to send him to college next year. Then there is
Juanita; she has lived with us for years, and we are all very fond of
her."
"Oh, I didn't know you were talking about servants," said Elsie. "I
thought you meant friends. Hadn't you any real friends?"
"Not the kind of friends you mean. I had Father and Mother and Aunt
Jessie, but until last August when Undine came, I had never spoken to a
white girl of my own age."
"Undine, what a queer name. Is she a Mexican or an Indian?"
"She isn't either," said Marjorie, laughing, "and Undine isn't her real
name. We only call her that because we don't know what her name is. It's
a very interesting story, and I'll tell you all about it, but here comes
my trunk, and I suppose I had better unpack and change my dress before
dinner."
In spite of Marjorie's reiterated assurances that she didn't need any
help, Hortense reappeared, and insisted on making herself useful. She
was very polite and talked volubly in broken English about
Mademoiselle's being _fatiguer_ and how glad she, Hortense, would be to
assist her in every way, but Marjorie could not help feeling
uncomfortable, and wishing that the well-intentioned maid would go away
and leave her to unpack by herself. But what made her still more
uncomfortable was the fact that Elsie also lingered, and regarded every
article that came out of that modest leather trunk, with a keen,
critical eye.
"What are you going to wear down to dinner?" she inquired anxiously as
the last things were being stowed away in the bureau drawers.
"I don't know," said Marjorie; "I hadn't thought about it. I suppose my
gray flannel suit, or else a clean shirt-waist and duck skirt."
Elsie clasped her hands in horror.
"Oh, you can't, you can't possibly!" she cried in real dismay. "Those
things will do very well for breakfast and luncheon, but everybody
dresses here in the evening. Let me see what you can wear. You haven't
got much, but I suppose that white muslin will do."
"But that is my very best dress," protested Marjorie, her cheeks
crimsoning from embarrassment and distress. "I don't think Mother would
like to have me wear it the first evening. I won't have anything left
for really grand occasions if I do."
"Oh, yes, you will," said Elsie, confidently. "Mamma is going to buy you
a lot of new clothes; that was all arranged before you came. It would
never do to have you going about everywhere in these things."
Marjorie glanced at her cousin's stylish, well fitting blue chiffon and
her heart was filled with dismay. Was it possible that all her mother's
and aunt's stitches had been taken in vain? It was very kind of Aunt
Julia to wish to buy her pretty clothes, but she did not like to have
her present wardrobe spoken of as "those things." Before she had time to
say any more on the subject, however, Mrs. Carleton appeared, to tell
them to hurry, as her husband was impatient for his dinner.
That first dinner in the big crowded hotel restaurant was a wonderful
revelation to Marjorie. The bright lights, the gay music, the ladies in
their pretty evening dresses, it was all like a vision of fairyland, and
for the first few minutes she could do nothing but gaze about her and
wonder if she were awake.
"And do you really know all these people?" she whispered to Elsie, when
they were seated at one of the small tables, and a waiter had taken
their order.
"Good gracious, no," laughed Elsie, who was beginning to find this
unsophisticated Western cousin decidedly amusing. "We don't know one of
them to speak to."
Marjorie's eyes opened wide in astonishment.
"How very strange," she said. "I supposed people who lived in the same
house always knew each other. We know everybody at home, even if they
live ten miles away."
"Well, this isn't Arizona, you know," said Elsie, shrugging her
shoulders, and Marjorie, feeling as if she had somehow been snubbed,
relapsed into silence.
Just then a lady and a gentleman and a boy of eighteen or nineteen came
in, and took their seats at an opposite table. Elsie, who had appeared
quite indifferent to all the other guests, instantly began to show signs
of interest.
"There they are," she said eagerly, addressing her mother. "The
gentleman is with them again to-night, too. I forgot to tell you, Mamma;
I've found out their name, it's Randolph."
"How did you find out?" Mrs. Carleton asked, beginning to look
interested in her turn.
"Lulu Bell told me to-day walking home from school. That boy passed us
on the Avenue, and I asked her if she didn't think he was handsome. She
said she knew who he was, though she had never met him. His uncle is a
Dr. Randolph, and a friend of her father's. This boy and his mother are
from Virginia, and are spending the winter here. He is a freshman at
Columbia, and his mother doesn't want to be separated from him, because
she is a widow, and he is her only child. Lulu says Dr. Randolph has
asked her mother to call on his sister-in-law. He said they had taken an
apartment at this hotel for the winter. I made Lulu promise to introduce
me if she ever had the chance, but she may never even meet him. She is
such a queer girl; she doesn't care the least bit about boys."
"A very sensible young person, I should say," remarked Mr. Carleton,
dryly. "How old is your friend Lulu?"
"Nearly fourteen; quite old enough to be interested in something besides
dolls, but she's dreadfully young for her age."
"I wish some other little girls were young for their age," said Mr.
Carleton; "it doesn't appear to be a common failing in these days."
Elsie flushed and looked annoyed.
"That boy really has a very nice face," put in Mrs. Carleton, anxious to
change the subject, "and his devotion to his mother is charming. I
suppose her husband must have died recently; she is in such deep
mourning."
While the others were talking, Marjorie, whose eyes had been wandering
rapidly from one group to another, had finally fixed themselves upon the
party at the opposite table. They certainly looked attractive; the
gentleman with the strong, clever face, and hair just turning gray; the
pretty, gentle little mother in her black dress, and the handsome
college boy, with merry blue eyes. It was quite natural that Elsie
should want to know them, but why in the world didn't she speak to them
herself without waiting to be introduced? It seemed so strange and
inhospitable to live in the same house with people and not speak to
them. So when her aunt had finished her remarks about the Randolph
family, she turned to Elsie and inquired innocently:
"If you want to know that boy so much why don't you tell him so?"
There was a moment of astonished silence; then Elsie giggled.
"You are the funniest girl I ever met, Marjorie," she said. "Why don't
you do it yourself?"
"Elsie," said her mother in a tone of shocked reproof, and turning to
Marjorie, she added gravely:
"When you have been in New York a little longer, my dear, you will learn
that it is not the proper thing for young girls to speak to strangers
to whom they have not been introduced."
There was no doubt about the snub this time, and poor Marjorie was
horribly embarrassed. She cast an appealing glance at her uncle, but he
appeared to be absorbed, and finding no help from Elsie either, she
relapsed into silence, and did not speak again for at least five
minutes.
After all, that first evening could scarcely be called a success. Mr.
and Mrs. Carleton were very kind, and Elsie seemed disposed to be
friendly, but Marjorie was conscious of a sensation of disappointment
for which she could scarcely account even to herself. She struggled
bravely against the homesickness which threatened every moment to
overwhelm her, and tried to take an interest in all her new relatives'
conversation, but when dinner was over, and they had gone upstairs
again, she was not sorry to avail herself of Aunt Julia's suggestion
that she must be "quite worn out," and slip quietly off to bed. It was
not easy to dispense with the services of Hortense, who showed an
alarming tendency to linger and offer to assist, but even she was
finally disposed of, and with a sigh of intense relief, Marjorie closed
her door, switched off the electric light, and crept into bed. Then
followed a good hearty cry, which somehow made her feel better, and
then, being young and very tired as well, she fell into a sound, healthy
sleep, from which she did not awaken until it was broad daylight.