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 sophomore at Yale, and he wants Mamma and me
to come to New Haven for the football game next Saturday. 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 anticipations. "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 Saturday 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 classes 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 assurances, 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 anticipated. 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.
"Oh, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle," gasped Hortense, seizing Marjorie's
arm, and fairly trembling with fright and horror; "how could you do such
a terrible thing? A young lady to fight with a _canaille_! Oh, what will
Madame say when she hears?"
[Illustration: WITH ONE QUICK MOVEMENT SHE SEIZED THE WHIP
HANDLE.--_Page 145._]
"He is a wicked, cruel boy," panted Marjorie; "he ought to be arrested.
He is killing that poor old horse."
"Yes, I know, he is cruel, a beast, but young ladies must not interfere
with such things. You might have been hurt. Let us go home quickly; I am
near to faint. Thank Heaven no one saw. Madame would never forgive such
a disgrace."
"But some one ought to interfere," protested Marjorie, her wrath
beginning to cool, "and there wasn't anybody else to do it. I would have
taken that whip away from him if I could, but he was so strong, and he
has hurt my wrist."
"Hurt your wrist! Let me see. Ah, but it is red. How could you have held
on so tight? Come home quickly, and we will bathe it with arnica. How
fortunate that Madame and Mademoiselle Elsie are away! Ah, here comes
the young gentleman, Mademoiselle Elsie's friend from the hotel; he must
not know that anything is wrong."
But Marjorie had no intention of keeping her indignation to herself, and
she turned to greet Beverly Randolph with eyes that flashed and cheeks
that tingled.
"Oh, Mr. Randolph," she exclaimed, as the young man smilingly took off
his hat, and paused beside her, "the most dreadful thing has
happened. A cruel, wicked boy has been ill-treating a poor old horse.
The poor creature had a terribly heavy load, and when he refused to go
any further, the boy beat him, and--"
"Where is he?" inquired Beverly, his own eyes beginning to flash. "I'll
report the case to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals."
"He has gone," said Marjorie, regretfully. "He gave the horse a dreadful
cut with the whip, and it was so frightened it started, and then he
jumped into the wagon and went off. I tried to get the whip away from
him, but he was terribly strong, and he hurt my wrist so much I had to
let go."
Beverly Randolph's face was a mixture of astonishment, amusement and
horror.
"You don't mean that you tackled the fellow yourself?" he demanded
incredulously.
Marjorie nodded. Now that the excitement was over she was beginning to
feel a little startled at what she had done.
"I had to," she said humbly; "there wasn't any one else to do it.
Hortense thinks it was very unladylike, but I don't see what else I
could have done. I couldn't just stand by and do nothing while that
poor horse was being ill-treated."
"No, I don't suppose you could," said Beverly, smiling. "I don't think I
would do it again, though; you might get hurt. Hello! what's the
matter?--don't you feel well?"
For Marjorie had suddenly grown very pale, and leaned against the
lamp-post.
"It's--it's my wrist," she faltered; "it hurts dreadfully, and--and I
think I feel a little faint."
Without a moment's hesitation Beverly drew the girl's arm through his.
"Come along," he said, peremptorily, and without another word he
conducted the wounded soldier back to the hotel. Marjorie, too, was
silent; the pain in her wrist was very bad, and she had to bite her lips
hard to keep back the rising tears. Hortense, still covered with shame
and confusion, followed close behind. At the door of the lift Beverly
paused.
"Is your aunt at home?" he inquired.
"No," said Marjorie, unsteadily; "she and Elsie have gone to New Haven
for the football game."
"To be sure they have; I had forgotten. Your cousin told me they were
going this afternoon. Well, I think I will take you to our apartment.
My mother is used to sprains and bruises, and will know what to do for
your wrist."
Marjorie protested that she could not think of disturbing Mrs. Randolph,
but Beverly, who appeared to be accustomed to having his own way,
remained firm, and in the end his companion was forced to yield, much to
the distress and horror of Hortense, who considered that the story was
already known to more persons than Mrs. Carleton would approve.
Mrs. Randolph and her brother-in-law were having tea in the former's
pretty sitting-room, when the door was unceremoniously flung open, and
Beverly appeared on the threshold, leading in a trembling, white-faced
girl, who immediately collapsed into the nearest chair, and looked as if
she were about to faint.
"It's Miss Marjorie Graham, Mother," Beverly explained, "and she has
hurt her wrist. Her aunt is away, so I brought her in here. Oh, here's
Uncle George; what luck! This is my uncle Dr. Randolph, Miss Marjorie;
he is a surgeon, you know, and he'll fix you up in no time."
"To be sure I will if I can," said a pleasant voice, not unlike
Beverly's. "Let me see what the trouble is. Ah, this is the hand, isn't
it?" And Marjorie felt her wrist taken in firm, kind fingers. She
winced at the touch, but the doctor's next words were reassuring.
"I see; only a slight sprain, nothing serious. Have you some arnica,
Barbara, and some linen that I can use for a bandage?"
"How did it happen, dear?" Mrs. Randolph inquired sympathetically, as
Marjorie leaned back in her chair, with a sigh of intense relief, and
the doctor applied a cooling lotion to her aching wrist.
Marjorie's cheeks were crimson again, but not for a moment did she
hesitate about telling the truth. Beverly had gone off to his own room,
having left his charge in safe hands.
"I am afraid it was my own fault," she said, honestly. "I saw a boy
ill-treating a poor old horse, and tried to stop him by getting the whip
away from him, but he was much stronger than I, and in the struggle I
suppose he must have twisted my wrist. I am afraid your son and my
aunt's maid both think I was very unladylike."
Mrs. Randolph and the doctor exchanged amused glances, and the latter
said kindly:
"I wish more people were moved by the same spirit, though I don't know
that I should advise young girls to attack rough drivers. I imagine you
have not been very long in New York or you would be accustomed to such
sights."
"No," said Marjorie, much relieved. "I have only been in New York three
weeks. My home is on a ranch in Arizona, but I have been accustomed to
horses all my life. I think my father would almost kill any boy who
dared to treat one of ours like that."
"I daresay he would. Your father raises horses, I suppose?"
"Yes, and cattle, too. I have lived on the ranch ever since I was two
years old, and New York seems very strange in some ways."
"It must," said Dr. Randolph gravely, but his eyes twinkled, and
Marjorie felt sure he was trying not to laugh. "There, I think the wrist
will do nicely now. You can wet this bandage again in an hour, and if I
am not mistaken the pain will be gone by that time. I must be going now,
Barbara; I have two patients to see before dinner. I'll call for you and
Beverly in the car at nine to-morrow morning; that will give us plenty
of time to make New Haven before lunch." And with a hurried leave-taking
the doctor departed, leaving Mrs. Randolph and Marjorie alone together.
The next half-hour was a very pleasant one. Mrs. Randolph would not
allow the girl to go back to her own apartment until the pain in her
wrist had subsided, and she made her lie on the sofa, and petted her in
a way that recalled Mother and Aunt Jessie so strongly that Marjorie had
some difficulty in keeping back the homesick tears. Almost before she
knew it, she was chatting away to this new acquaintance as if they had
been old friends.
"I hope I shall get accustomed to New York ways soon," she said humbly.
"I am afraid I make a great many mistakes, and they distress my aunt and
cousin very much. You see, it is all so different on the ranch. I
suppose your son told you how I spoke to him that morning in the park,
and asked him to take me home. It seemed quite a natural thing to do,
because I knew he lived in this hotel, but Aunt Julia was dreadfully
shocked."
Mrs. Randolph laughed.
"Beverly was not at all shocked," she said. "He and I have rather
old-fashioned ideas about some things; we like little girls to be
natural."
"I am so glad you think me a little girl still," said Marjorie in a
sudden burst of confidence. "All the girls here seem so grown-up, and I
don't want to grow up just yet; I am only fourteen."
"My little girl would have been just about your age if she had lived,"
said Mrs. Randolph, with a rather sad smile. "I am sure I should not
have begun to think of her as grown-up yet."
Marjorie was interested. She would have liked to ask Mrs. Randolph about
her little girl, but feared the subject might be a painful one, and just
that moment Beverly came back, and the conversation turned on other
matters. In a little while Marjorie rose to go.
"You have been very kind to me," she said to Mrs. Randolph. "My wrist
feels ever so much better already. I do hope I haven't been a bother."
"Not a bit of it," Mrs. Randolph declared, laughing. "On the contrary, I
have enjoyed your call very much, and I hope you will come often, for I
am very fond of little girls. By the way, what are you going to do
to-morrow?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Marjorie; "walk and read and study, I suppose.
Aunt Julia said I might drive in the afternoon, but the horses go so
slowly I always feel as though I should like to get out of the carriage
and run. Galloping over the prairie is much more fun."
Mrs. Randolph and her son both laughed, and Beverly remarked rather
indignantly:
"It's a shame you couldn't have gone to the game with the others."
"Oh, that wasn't Aunt Julia's fault," said Marjorie, loyally. "Her
nephew only sent two tickets, and Elsie says it's almost impossible to
get extra ones. They were very kind about it, and Aunt Julia hated to
leave me behind."
Beverly and his mother exchanged a significant glance, and then Beverly
offered to accompany the visitor as far as her own apartment for the
purpose of carrying the arnica bottle, which Mrs. Randolph insisted she
should keep in case of necessity. Marjorie protested, but Beverly was
firm, and the two young people left the room together, after Mrs.
Randolph had kissed the girl, and told her she must come again very
soon.