MARJORIE TAKES A MORNING WALK
WHEN Marjorie opened her eyes the next morning, she lay for some minutes
thinking over the events of the previous day, and listening to the
unusual noise in the street. There was so much noise that she began to
fear it must be very late, and jumping out of bed, she went to look at
the clock. It was only just half-past six. She had forgotten to ask at
what hour the family breakfasted, but seven o'clock was the usual
breakfast time at the ranch, so she decided that it might be well to
dress as speedily as possible. She felt very wide awake indeed this
morning, and suddenly remembered that she had not had a walk or ride
since leaving home.
"I'll get Elsie to come with me for a good long tramp after breakfast,"
she said to herself. "If she can't go on account of school, I'll ask
Uncle Henry to let me walk with him to his office, and I can come back
by myself."
Greatly to Marjorie's relief, no Hortense appeared with offers of
assistance, and she performed her morning toilet in peace. She put on
the gray flannel suit, which Elsie had pronounced "good enough for
breakfast and luncheon," and then once more glancing at the clock,
discovered that it was still only five minutes past seven.
"If they breakfast at seven I shall be only five minutes late," she
said, with a feeling of satisfaction; "I should have hated to be late
the first morning. Perhaps they won't have it till half-past, and then I
shall have time to write a few lines to Mother first."
She opened her door, and crossed the hall to the drawing-room, where her
aunt had told her the family usually breakfasted, in preference to going
downstairs to the restaurant, but somewhat to her surprise, she found
the room just as she had left it on the previous evening, and the whole
apartment seemed very quiet. She went to one of the windows and looked
out.
"What a lot of people there are in the street," she remarked
reflectively, "and they all seem in such a hurry. I wonder where they
are going. How pretty the park is. Oh, how I should love a gallop on
Roland before breakfast."
The door behind her opened, and a woman with a duster in her hand came
in. She looked very much surprised at finding the room occupied.
"Good morning," said Marjorie, with her friendly smile; "it's a lovely
day, isn't it?"
"It's very pleasant," returned the chambermaid, still looking surprised.
"You are up early, Miss," she added politely.
"Am I?" said Marjorie, surprised in her turn. "I didn't know I was. At
what time do my aunt and uncle generally have breakfast?"
"Never before half-past eight, and sometimes later. Mrs. Carleton
generally has her breakfast in bed, but Mr. Carleton and the young lady
have theirs in here."
"Half-past eight," repeated Marjorie in dismay, "and it's only a little
after seven now. I should say I was early."
The maid smiled, and began dusting the ornaments without making any
further remarks. She did not appear to be a very communicative person,
and Marjorie decided that she might as well go back to her room, and
write the letter to her mother, which could now be a much longer one
than she had at first intended. But on the way she suddenly changed her
mind.
"I can write later just as well," she decided, "and it really is much
too beautiful to stay indoors. I'll go and have a walk in that lovely
park. I shall feel much more like breakfast when I've had some fresh air
and exercise."
Marjorie had not the least idea that she was doing anything unusual as
she ran lightly down the broad marble stairs five minutes later, and
stepped out through the open street door into the fresh morning air. The
Carleton's apartment was on the fifth floor, but Marjorie scorned to use
the lift, which had struck her the evening before, as a very wonderful
but unnecessary invention.
Several people in the hall looked at her curiously, and a man in brass
buttons asked her if he should call a cab.
"Oh, no, thank you," said Marjorie, pleasantly; "I'm going for a walk,"
and she passed out, without another backward glance.
It really was a glorious morning, and Marjorie drew in long deep breaths
of the keen autumn air, as she crossed the broad avenue and entered the
park. She was not disappointed in her first impression that the park was
beautiful, and the further she walked among the trees and broad asphalt
paths, the more attractive it became. It was the last of October, but
the autumn had been a warm one, and the grass was almost as green as in
summer. To Marjorie, accustomed all her life to the arid prairie, where
trees and flowers were practically unknown, it all seemed very
wonderful, and she enjoyed every step. She walked rapidly on for some
distance, paying no particular attention to the direction she was
taking. The possibility of getting lost never once entered her mind. She
met very few people, and they all seemed in a hurry, and looked like men
and women on their way to their day's work. Once she passed a
forlorn-looking man asleep on a bench, and remembered what Undine had
once said about a tramp. This must be a tramp, she felt sure, and she
paused to regard him with interest as a new specimen of humanity.
Suddenly she came to a standstill and looked about here. She was in a
quiet path, with rocks on both sides, and there was not a soul in sight.
"I must turn back," she said, with an uncomfortable recollection of the
passing of time. "I was enjoying my walk so much I never realized how
far I was going, but I'm afraid I shall have to hurry now if I don't
want to be late for breakfast."
Accordingly she turned her steps in the direction from which she had
come, and walked on rapidly for several minutes. But alas! she had
taken more than one turn since entering the park, and going back was no
such easy matter as she had imagined. The more she tried to remember the
way she had come, the more bewildered she became.
"I declare, I believe I am lost!" she said at last, with a feeling of
amused dismay. "I must be more careful to notice where I am going next
time. Oh, there is one of those men in uniform, that Uncle Henry said
were policemen. He will be able to tell me if I'm going right."
She quickened her steps, and approaching the officer, inquired politely:
"Will you please tell me if this is the way to the entrance?"
"Which entrance?" inquired the policeman, regarding her curiously.
"I don't know," said Marjorie; "the entrance I came in--are there more
than one?"
"A good many more; which avenue do you want?"
Marjorie's heart was beginning to beat rather fast. For the moment she
could not remember; even the name of the hotel--which she had only heard
once or twice--had escaped her recollection.
"I have forgotten the name of the street," she said helplessly, "but
it's the entrance opposite the big hotel."
The policeman looked uncertain, but at that moment a young man riding a
bicycle appeared upon the scene, at sight of whom Marjorie's face
brightened, and she uttered a little gasp of relief.
"That young gentleman knows," she exclaimed joyfully, and, quite
forgetful of her aunt's snub of the evening before, she darted forward,
and hailed the youth on the bicycle quite as if she had been an old
friend.
"Oh, please excuse me for stopping you," she cried, eagerly, "but you
know where I want to go, and I have forgotten the name of the hotel."
The young man brought his bicycle to a standstill; sprang to the ground,
and snatched off his cap. He was evidently very much surprised, but too
polite to show it.
"I beg your pardon," he said in a very pleasant voice; "can I be of any
assistance to you?"
"Yes," said Marjorie, frankly. "I saw you in the hotel dining-room last
night, and I heard my cousin say you lived there. I came out for a walk
before breakfast, and--it's very stupid I suppose--but I can't find my
way back to the entrance where I came in."
A look of comprehension came into the young man's pleasant face, and he
regarded Marjorie with interest not unmixed with amusement.
"I understand," he said; "you are staying at the 'Plaza,' and want to go
back there."
"Yes, that is the name," said Marjorie, looking much relieved; "will you
please show me the way to the gate?"
"Certainly," said her new acquaintance, smiling, and he at once began to
lead the way, pushing his bicycle along beside him.
"Oh, don't you want to get on your wheel again?" Marjorie inquired
anxiously. "I can easily follow if you don't go too fast."
The young man protested that he had ridden quite long enough, and would
be glad of a little walk.
"You are very kind," said Marjorie, heartily. "It was very stupid of me
to lose my way; I never was lost before."
"And do you often walk here in the park?" her new friend inquired,
politely.
"Oh, no, I was never here before. I only came to New York yesterday; my
home is in Arizona."
"You have come a long distance," he said. "And how do you like New
York--that is to say as much as you have seen of it?"
"I think it is very noisy and rather smoky, but the hotel is beautiful,
and so is this park. I haven't seen much of New York yet, but I am going
to spend the winter here."
"I quite agree with you as to the noise and smoke," said her companion,
smiling, "but New York is a pretty jolly place notwithstanding. It isn't
my home either; I am from Virginia."
"Yes, I know you are," said Marjorie, innocently. "You came here to go
to college, and your mother is with you. My cousin told us all about it
last evening at dinner."
The young man laughed outright. It was such a merry laugh that Marjorie
could not help joining in it, and after that they were excellent
friends.
"Now I wonder if you would mind telling me how your cousin obtained her
information," Marjorie's new friend said when he had recovered his
gravity. "I haven't met her, have I? What is her name?"
"Elsie Carleton. No, she hasn't met you yet, but she wants to very much.
A friend of hers has promised to introduce you if she has a chance. Your
name is Randolph, isn't it?"
"Yes, Beverly Randolph, at your service. I shall be very glad to meet
your cousin, I am sure. Perhaps you will introduce us."
"Of course I will if you like. It seems very queer not to know a person
who lives in the same house with one, but Elsie says they don't know any
of the people at the hotel. It was all so different at home."
Then Beverly Randolph asked some questions about Arizona, which set
Marjorie off on a description of the ranch, and her life there, which
lasted until they reached the Fifth Avenue entrance.
"That's the gate I came in," exclaimed Marjorie. "I wasn't so far away,
after all. Would you mind telling me what time it is?"
Beverly Randolph took out his watch.
"Ten minutes past nine," he said, looking somewhat dismayed in his turn;
"I had no idea it was so late. Luckily it is Saturday, so there are no
recitations to miss."
"O dear! I am afraid I am terribly late for breakfast," said Marjorie,
feeling very much ashamed of herself. And without another word, they
hurried across the avenue, and entered the hotel, where the very first
person Marjorie saw in the entrance hall was her uncle.
"Oh, Uncle Henry, I am so sorry to be late!" she cried remorsefully,
springing to Mr. Carleton's side. "I hope you and Aunt Julia aren't
annoyed with me."
"Where in the world have you been, Marjorie?" her uncle demanded,
ignoring the latter part of her remark. He was looking decidedly annoyed
as well as worried.
"Why, I got up early," Marjorie explained, "and the girl who was dusting
said you never had breakfast before half-past eight, so I thought I
would go for a walk in the park. I got lost, and couldn't remember the
name of the hotel, but fortunately, just as I was beginning to be a
little frightened, I met Mr. Beverly Randolph, and he brought me home."
"And who is Beverly Randolph? I had no idea you had friends in New
York."
"Oh, he isn't exactly a friend--at least he wasn't till this morning.
You know who he is, Uncle Henry; that nice-looking boy Elsie was talking
about at dinner last night. Wasn't it fortunate I recognized him. He is
just as nice as he can be, and I'm going to introduce him to Elsie."
"Come upstairs at once," said Mr. Carleton, a trifle less sternly. "We
have been very anxious about you; you must never do such a thing
again."
Marjorie was dumb with astonishment. Beyond being late for breakfast she
had no idea that she had done anything wrong. She followed her uncle in
silence, and did not utter another word until they had reached their own
apartment, where they found Mrs. Carleton in a condition bordering on
hysteria, and Elsie trying to look solemn, but secretly rather enjoying
the situation. "I should really think, Marjorie, that you might have
known," said Mrs. Carleton in a tone of deep reproach, when she had
heard her niece's explanation, "your own common sense should have told
you that to go wandering off by yourself in a strange city at seven
o'clock in the morning, was a most extraordinary thing to do. You must
never again go out alone at any hour. Elsie has never been out without a
maid."
Marjorie's eyes opened wide in amazement.
"Not go out alone?" she repeated stupidly. "Why I've always gone
everywhere by myself ever since I was a little girl."
"Well, you are not to do it here, whatever you may have done in
Arizona," said Mrs. Carleton, crossly. "As for speaking to a strange
young man, and getting him to bring you home, I really never heard of
anything so outrageous. We have been frightened to death about you."
"There, there, Julia," put in Uncle Henry, "don't you think you have
said enough? I am sure Marjorie will never do such a thing again; she
will soon be accustomed to New York ways. Now suppose you let the child
have some breakfast; she looks about ready to drop."
But it was not want of food that had driven the color from Marjorie's
cheeks and the light from her eyes. Indeed, she had but small appetite
for the tempting breakfast that was set before her, and it was only by a
mighty effort that she was able to keep back the burst of homesick tears
which threatened every moment to overpower her.
At the same moment that Mrs. Carleton was administering her reproof to
Marjorie, Beverly Randolph was giving his mother an account of the
morning's adventure, as they sat together at breakfast in their pleasant
sitting-room on the floor below.
"I know you would like the little girl, Mother," he ended; "she is such
a natural, jolly sort, and there isn't one bit of nonsense about her."
Mrs. Randolph smiled as she poured her son's coffee, and regarded him
with proud, loving eyes.
"You never have admired the 'sort' with nonsense about them, have you,
dear?" she said rather mischievously.
"I haven't any use for them," said Beverly with decision. "I like girls
well enough when they behave decently, but the silly giggly ones get on
my nerves. This one--Marjorie Graham she says her name is--is all right,
though. I think I know the cousin by sight, and I don't feel so sure
about her."
"You mustn't be too fastidious, Beverly," said his mother, laughing. "I
dare say they are both nice little girls. By the way, I have received an
invitation from that charming Mrs. Bell, who called the other day,
asking us both to dine with her next Tuesday. Her husband is an old
friend of Uncle George's, you know. Mrs. Bell told me she had a daughter
of thirteen or fourteen, so that will be another acquaintance for you."
"Well, if she is like most of the New York girls I've seen I sha'n't
care much about her," declared Beverly. "I prefer the ones that come
from Arizona. Honestly, Mother, I want you to meet that little girl. I
don't know what it was about her, but she reminded me of Babs."
A look of pain crossed Mrs. Randolph's sweet face, but her voice was
still quite cheerful as she answered--
"Very well, dear, be sure to introduce her to me; I want to know all
your friends."
As soon as she could escape from her relatives after breakfast, Marjorie
fled to her own room, there to have her cry out, and pull herself
together, before starting on a shopping expedition with her aunt. Elsie
was going to lunch with a schoolmate, but Aunt Julia had ordered the
carriage and told Marjorie that she intended devoting the day to
shopping.
"You are to begin school on Monday," she explained, "and I must get you
some decent clothes as soon as possible."
Marjorie supposed she ought to be grateful, but she could not help
resisting the fact that her aunt evidently did not consider her present
wardrobe "decent," and this, added to her other troubles, resulted in a
very unhappy half-hour. But Marjorie was a plucky girl, and she had
plenty of common sense.
"I won't write a word about all this to Mother or Aunt Jessie," she
decided as she dried her eyes. "It wouldn't do any good, and they would
be so sorry. I am sure Aunt Julia means to be kind, and I suppose I did
frighten them, but it does seem so silly not to be allowed to go out for
a walk by one's self."
She had just bathed her red eyes, and was sitting down to write the
deferred letter to her mother, when the door opened, and Elsie came in.
"Mamma says you are to be ready to go out with her in fifteen minutes,"
she began, then paused, regarding her cousin curiously. "You look as if
you'd been crying," she said abruptly. "Mamma did pitch into you pretty
hard, but it was an awfully queer thing to go out by yourself at seven
o'clock in the morning."
"I'm very sorry I did what was wrong," said Marjorie, "but I had no idea
any one would object. I often go for a gallop on my pony before
breakfast at home."
"Oh, I daresay you do, but that is very different. I think it was too
funny that you should have met Beverly Randolph. Do tell me what he is
like."
"He is very nice indeed," said Marjorie, frankly; "I liked him ever so
much."
"You'll be sure to introduce us, won't you? It will be such fun to tell
Lulu Bell I've met him first; not that she'll care much, she's such a
baby. Mamma thinks she may call on Mrs. Randolph to thank her."
"What does she want to thank her for?" inquired Marjorie, innocently.
"Why, for her son's bringing you home, and being so kind to you. You
might have been lost for hours if he hadn't done it."
"But his mother had nothing to do with that," persisted Marjorie.
"Besides, he was on his way home, anyway. He was very nice, but I don't
see what there is to thank his mother for."
Elsie reddened, and looked a little annoyed.
"Oh, well, it doesn't matter," she said carelessly. "Mamma would like to
call on Mrs. Randolph, and this makes a good excuse, that's all. She
says the Randolphs of Virginia are a very old family. Now hurry and get
ready; the carriage will be here in a few minutes."
Marjorie said no more on the subject, but she was puzzled. It was only
natural that Aunt Julia should wish to make the acquaintance of a lady
who lived in the same house with her, but why was it necessary to have
an excuse for doing so? She was beginning to think that there were going
to be a great many new things to learn in New York.