A MOTOR RIDE AND A FOOTBALL GAME
"I THINK your mother is perfectly lovely," declared Marjorie, the moment
the door of the Randolph's apartment had closed behind them. "Is she
always so kind to strangers?"
"Mother's a brick," said Beverly, heartily. "She's kind to everybody,
and always doing things for people. She's a good sport, too. I really
believe, she is looking forward to the game to-morrow almost as much as
I am. It's because she's so unselfish; she never stops to think of
herself so long as other people are having a good time."
"My aunt is like that," said Marjorie, with shining eyes. "She is a
great invalid, and suffers very much most of the time, but she never
complains, and is always interested in everything we do. Is your uncle a
surgeon?"
"Yes," said Beverly, rather surprised by the abruptness of the question;
"he is a very fine surgeon, I believe. Why do you want to know? Aren't
you satisfied with the way your wrist is bandaged?"
"Oh, it isn't that," said Marjorie, blushing; "it was only something I
was thinking of that made me ask the question. This is our apartment;
now I can take the bottle, and not bother you any more. Oh, there's a
letter in the box; perhaps it's for me!" And forgetting everything else
in her eagerness for home news, Marjorie sprang forward to possess
herself of the contents of the letter-box.
"It is for me!" she cried joyfully, glancing at the postmark. "It's from
Undine; the first one I've had from her."
"Undine," repeated Beverly, his eyes beginning to twinkle; "I had no
idea you counted water sprites among your acquaintances."
"She isn't a water sprite," laughed Marjorie. "She's just a girl like
anybody else. We call her Undine because nobody knows what her real name
is. It's a very strange story indeed. She was found under some ruins in
the streets of San Francisco right after the earthquake, and we think a
stone or something must have fallen on her head, for she was unconscious
for a long time, and now she can't remember anything that happened
before the earthquake, not even her own name. She isn't crazy, or
anything like that, but she has simply forgotten everything. Did you
ever hear of a case like that before?"
"I think I have read of such cases, but I imagine they are rather rare.
It is very interesting, but if you don't mind, Miss Marjorie, please
don't mention it to my mother. Any mention of the San Francisco
earthquake is very painful to her. My little sister was killed there."
"No, indeed I won't," promised Marjorie, "but how very sad about your
sister. Would you mind telling me how it happened? Don't talk about it,
though, if you would rather not."
"I don't mind in the least," said Beverly, "but it was such a frightful
shock to my mother that we don't like to have her dwell on it any any
more than can be helped. My sister Barbara was in San Francisco with my
aunt at the time of the earthquake. She had been very ill with scarlet
fever in the winter, and the doctor had ordered a change for her. My
aunt was going to California for a few weeks, and offered to take
Barbara with her. Mother couldn't leave home, for she was taking care of
my grandmother, who was ill at the time, and I was away at school. So it
ended in my aunt and Barbara going by themselves. My aunt intended
taking a maid, but the one she had engaged disappointed her at the last
moment, and as all the railroad accommodations had been secured, she
decided to start, and trust to finding a suitable maid in San Francisco,
which was to be their first stopping place. They reached San Francisco,
and my aunt wrote my mother that she had engaged a very satisfactory
girl, and two days later came the earthquake."
Beverly paused abruptly, and Marjorie, her face full of sympathy, laid a
kind little hand on his arm.
"Don't tell me any more," she said, gently; "it must have been very
terrible."
"It was," said Beverly, sadly. "Part of the wall of the hotel where they
were staying fell in, and they were both instantly killed. We feared for
a time that my mother would never recover from the shock."
"And was the maid killed, too?" Marjorie asked. She was longing to hear
more, but did not like to ask too many questions.
"We never knew; you see, she was a stranger to us. My uncle advertised
in all the California papers, in the hope of finding her, and perhaps
learn more particulars, but no answer ever came. She was probably
killed, poor thing."
"Your mother spoke of her little girl this afternoon," said Marjorie;
"she said she would have been just about my age."
"Yes, she would have been fifteen this January. It is rather odd, but
when I saw you that first morning in the park you somehow reminded me of
Babs. She was such a jolly little girl. She was four years younger than
I, but there were only we two, and we were always chums."
There was a look of such genuine sorrow on the boy's face that impulsive
Marjorie held out her hand.
"I'm so sorry," she said and that was all, but Beverly understood, and
he went back to his mother's apartment with a very kindly feeling for
the little girl from Arizona.
Once in her own room Marjorie speedily forgot the Randolphs and their
troubles in the delight of a letter from home. Undine's handwriting was
rather immature for a girl of her age, but the letter itself was most
interesting and satisfactory.
"November Fifteenth.
"DEAR MARJORIE:
"Your aunt thinks you would like to have a letter
from me, and although I can't see how you can
possibly care about hearing from such a stupid
person, I am very glad to write.
"You have no idea how much I have missed you. If
your mother and aunt had not been so very kind I
don't think I could have borne it, but, oh,
Marjorie dear they are so good; I do hope I can
deserve just a little of all they are doing for
me. Your mother is making me a new dress--isn't it
sweet of her? She sent to Albuquerque for the
material; it is dark blue serge with a little
stripe in it, and just as pretty as it can be. I
take a sewing lesson every day from Miss Jessie,
but I know as well as can be that I shall never
learn to make things as you do.
"Another thing that makes me very happy is that
your mother is giving me lessons, and letting me
recite to her every evening. Even if I am stupid
and can't remember my own name, I don't want to
grow up ignorant. We are reading English history
together, and it is very strange, but I almost
always know what is coming next. Mrs. Graham says
she feels sure I must have learned the same things
before.
"A very strange thing happened to me one day last
week; I think I almost remembered. It was the day
your long letter to Miss Jessie came, and she was
reading it aloud to us when it happened. It was
just like the day I heard Jim singing 'Mandalay'
for the first time. It seemed to me just for one
minute that I was going to remember everything,
and I was so excited I screamed, and frightened
Mrs. Graham and Miss Jessie. Then in a flash it
was all gone again, and I was so unhappy I
couldn't help crying. I am afraid I gave them a
good deal of trouble, but they were so kind!
Afterward Miss Jessie talked to me for a long
time, and made me promise to try not to worry any
more about not remembering. She said some lovely
comforting things about my being helpful and
trying to take your place, and they made me very
happy, although I am afraid I didn't really
deserve them.
"I ride almost every afternoon, and I think Roland
is beginning to like me. I never forget his sugar,
and I am teaching him to put his nose in my pocket
for it. I think I must have taught another horse
that some time, it seemed so natural, but I am not
sure. I have promised your aunt not to talk about
the things I think I used to do.
"I had such a beautiful dream last night. I
thought some one came and told me I was very rich,
and I was so happy, because I would have the money
to pay a surgeon to come and see Miss Jessie. I
was just planning out how I was to do it when I
woke up. I have thought a great deal about what
you told me that last evening, but of course I
have never mentioned it to any one. I don't
suppose you have had time to meet a surgeon yet.
"I must stop writing now, and study my history.
Everybody is well, and they all send heaps of love
and kisses. Your mother says 'don't let Marjorie
know how much we miss her,' but I am sure you know
that without any telling. I don't want to be
selfish, but I should just love a letter all to
myself some time. New York must be a very
interesting place, and your letters telling about
it all are wonderful.
"With a heart full of love, I am
"Your true but nameless friend,
"UNDINE."
Marjorie spent a busy evening over her lessons, and went to bed at nine
o'clock instead of writing the home letters she had intended.
"They would be so sorry to know I was here all by myself while the
others were off having a good time," she thought, resolutely crushing
down that troublesome little feeling of envy. "If I wrote to-night I
should have to mention it, but if I wait till Sunday when Aunt Julia
and Elsie are back again, I won't have to say anything about their
having been away. I promised Mother to let her know about all the
things, but some of them will keep till I get home and can tell her
myself."
But in spite of the throbbing pain in her wrist, and the disappointment
in her heart, Marjorie soon feel asleep, and did not wake until it was
broad daylight, and Hortense, with a note in her hand, was standing by
her bedside.
"It is only seven," the maid said apologetically, as Marjorie sat up in
bed, and rubbed her eyes. "I would not have called you so early, but the
hall boy has brought this note, and waits for an answer."
"What in the world can it be?" exclaimed Marjorie in astonishment, as
she tore open the envelope, but at the first glance at the contents her
face brightened, and she uttered a joyful little cry. This is what she
read.
"MY DEAR MARJORIE:
"I know you won't object to my calling you
Marjorie, because you say you like being a little
girl. I am writing to ask if you will go with us
to New Haven to-day. We are going in my
brother-in-law's car, and are to be ready to start
at nine o'clock. The friend we expected would go
with us has been prevented at the last moment,
which gives us an extra seat in the car as well as
a ticket for the game, and we should be delighted
to have you with us. I am sure your aunt would not
object, and I will explain everything to her
myself. I would have written you last evening, but
it was after ten when we learned that the friend
we had expected would be unable to go. We have
ordered breakfast for eight o'clock, and would be
glad to have you take it with us. Be sure to wrap
up well, for it may be a cold ride, and we shall
not get back till late.
"Hoping that you will be able to join us, I remain
"Sincerely your friend,
"BARBARA RANDOLPH."
Marjorie was out of bed almost before she had finished the last line.
Her eyes were dancing, and her heart pounding with excitement.
"Tell the boy to say I shall be delighted to go," she cried. "There
isn't time to write a note; I shall have to hurry. Oh, Hortense, did you
ever hear of anything quite so splendid?"
It was a very radiant Marjorie who presented herself at the Randolphs'
apartment an hour later, and Beverly and his mother felt fully repaid
for the kindly impulse which had prompted the invitation. The breakfast
that followed was a very pleasant one, and Marjorie chatted away to her
new friends as if she had known them all her life, and enjoyed herself
more than she had done at any time since coming to New York.
"I really didn't know how disappointed I was about not going till your
mother's note came," she said to Beverly, when breakfast was over, and
Mrs. Randolph had gone to put on her hat. "I have always longed to see a
football game. My father was on the team at Harvard."
"You seemed to take your disappointment rather cheerfully," said Beverly
with characteristic bluntness.
Marjorie blushed.
"It was just one of the things that couldn't be helped," she said
simply. "My aunt says there are some things every one has to make the
best of."
"Your aunt must be a sensible woman," remarked Mrs. Randolph, who had
returned just in time to hear Marjorie's last sentence. Thereupon
Marjorie launched forth into an account of Aunt Jessie's bravery and
cheerfulness, in which both her companions seemed interested.
Marjorie was sure she would never forget the delight of that motor ride
to New Haven. It was her first ride in an open touring car, and the
bright sunshine, the keen frosty air, and the swift motion, all combined
to render the trip a truly enjoyable one. She sat in the tonneau,
between Mrs. Randolph and the doctor, and Beverly occupied the front
seat with the chauffeur.
"It's the most heavenly motion I ever imagined," murmured Marjorie, as
they bowled swiftly out of the park and along the grand boulevard. "I
always thought riding was the most delightful thing in the world, but I
believe motoring is even better."
The doctor laughed.
"You must be an accomplished horsewoman," he said. "Beverly tells me you
have spent a good part of your life on a ranch."
"I rode my first pony before I was five, and helped Father train a colt
when I was nine," said Marjorie. "I suppose that is one reason why I
love horses so much, and can't bear to see one ill-treated."
"I have no doubt of it, but if I were you I think I would leave the
punishment of cruel drivers in future to the Society for the Prevention
of Cruelty to Animals. By the way, how is the wrist this morning?"
"Oh, it's ever so much better," said Marjorie, blushing at the memory of
her escapade. "I don't believe I have thought of it once since Mrs.
Randolph's note came. I have been so anxious to see a real college
football match. My father was on the team at Harvard."
"Indeed!" said the doctor, looking interested. "I am a Harvard man
myself, and there was a Graham on the team in my time; a splendid
chap--what is your father's name?"
"Donald, and he was in the class of 1890," said Marjorie, eagerly. "Oh,
I wonder if you can really have known Father."
"I certainly did. Ninety was my class, too, and I remember Donald Graham
very well, though we have never met since the old college days."
"How perfectly delightful!" cried Marjorie, with sparkling eyes. "Father
will be so interested when I write him about it."
Dr. Randolph was really pleased to hear of his old classmate, forgotten
for nearly twenty years, and he and Marjorie were soon in the midst of
an animated conversation; she telling of her father's busy life on the
Arizona cattle ranch, and he relating college stories, and growing young
again himself in recalling those old merry days.
That was a wonderful ride, and Marjorie enjoyed every moment. Dr.
Randolph told her the names of all the towns they passed through, and
Beverly and his mother were so kind and so merry. It was noon when they
reached New Haven, where they found the streets crowded with people and
automobiles, and many of the buildings decorated with flags and Yale
colors.
"Have all these people come to see the game?" Marjorie asked
breathlessly.
"Yes, and a good many more as well," Dr. Randolph told her. "There is
always a big crowd for these games; the railroads run special trains on
purpose. We are going to have lunch now, and then go out to Yale Field."
"I wonder if we shall meet Aunt Julia and Elsie," said Marjorie. "How
surprised they will be to see me if we do. Aunt Julia will be pleased, I
know, for she hated to leave me at home."
"We shall meet the Bells and their party at any rate," said Beverly.
"They came yesterday by train, and are saving a table for us at the
restaurant. You know Lulu Bell, don't you, Marjorie?"
"Yes, she is in my class, and I like her ever so much. I like Winifred
Hamilton, too, and she is to be with the Bells, I believe."
At that moment they drew up before the hotel where they were to lunch,
and Mrs. Randolph and Marjorie hurried away to the dressing-room to
remove wraps and motor veils, while the doctor and his nephew went to
order luncheon.