THE THINGS THAT HURT
MARJORIE awoke the next morning with a very heavy heart. Although
Elsie's companionship had not proved quite all she had anticipated,
still they had hitherto been perfectly good friends. Marjorie had looked
upon her clever cousin with genuine admiration, and if in some things
Elsie had disappointed her, she had explained the fact to herself by
remembering how different life in New York was from life in Arizona.
"Elsie has so many friends," she had told herself over and over again;
"of course I can't expect her to be as fond of me as I am of her."
But last night's discovery had been a cruel disappointment, and her
cousin's parting words had hurt more than perhaps Elsie herself fully
realized. She had lain awake a long time, hoping--almost expecting--that
Elsie would come back to tell her she was sorry. She was so ready to
forgive, herself, and even to make allowances, but no sound had come
from the adjoining room, and she had fallen asleep at last, still
hoping that morning might bring about the longed-for reconciliation.
It was still very early, but accustomed all her life to the early hours
of the ranch, she had not yet learned to sleep as late as the other
members of the family. She tossed about in bed for half an hour, vainly
trying to go to sleep again, and then suddenly determined to get up.
"If I could only have a canter on Roland, or a good long tramp before
breakfast," she thought, with a regretful sigh, "I know it would clear
the cobwebs from my brain, and I should feel ever so much better. But
since that is out of the question, I may as well answer Undine's letter.
She will like a letter all to herself, and I shall have plenty of time
to write before the others are up."
Accordingly, as soon as she was dressed, she sat down at her desk, and
began a letter, which she was determined to make as bright and cheerful
as possible.
"NEW YORK, November 28th.
"DEAR UNDINE:
"I was delighted to get your nice letter last
week, but this is the very first spare moment I
have had in which to answer it. It is still very
early--only a little after six--and nobody else is
up, but I can't get accustomed to the queer New
York hours. Just think, nobody has breakfast much
before half past eight, and instead of dinner at
twelve or one, we don't dine till half past seven.
I thought I should be dreadfully hungry when I
first heard at what hour New York people dined,
but really luncheon--which they have in the middle
of the day--is almost the same as dinner. I have
eaten so much since I came here that I am sure I
must have gained pounds already.
"I wrote Father all about the football game, and
what a wonderful day I had. Since then we have had
Thanksgiving, and that was very pleasant too,
though of course not as exciting as the football
match and the motor ride. We all dined with Aunt
Julia's sister, Mrs. Lamont. Mrs. Lamont's son,
who is an artist, and very clever, drew funny
sketches on all the dinner cards, and his sister
made up the verses. I think my card was lovely; it
had a picture of a girl riding a horse, and the
verse underneath was:
"'Welcome, Western stranger
To our Thanksgiving board,
May you have a jolly time,
And not be very bored.'
"Miss Annie says she isn't a poet, and I don't
suppose any of the verses were really very good,
but they made everybody laugh. It was funny to
have 'board' and 'bored' in the same verse, but
Miss Lamont said she got hopelessly stuck when she
had written the first two lines, and had to end up
with 'bored,' because it was the only word she
could think of to rhyme with 'the Thanksgiving
board.' I sat next to Mr. Ward--Aunt Julia's other
sister's husband--and he was very kind, and told
funny stories all the time. After dinner we had
charades, and played old-fashioned games, which
were great fun.
"Lulu Bell, one of the girls at school, has gotten
up a Club, which is to meet every Friday evening
at the different girls' houses. We had the first
meeting last night, and every girl had to write a
poem in order to become a member. Some of the
poems were very clever, and some very funny. One
girl made 'close' rhyme with 'nose.' My poem was
silly, but I am going to send it to Aunt Jessie,
because she likes to keep all my foolish little
things.
"I am so glad you are happy, and are growing so
fond of Mother and Aunt Jessie. The more people I
meet, the more convinced I am that they are the
two of the very best in the world. I am glad,
too, that you are trying not to worry about the
things you can't remember. I have told the girls
at school about you, and they all think you are
the most wonderful person they have ever heard of.
The lady who took me to the football game had a
little girl who was killed in the San Francisco
earthquake. Her brother told me about it, and it
is a very sad story. He asked me not to mention
you to his mother, because it always distresses
her to hear anything about the earthquake. She is
perfectly lovely, and so bright and jolly that it
seems hard to realize she has had such a great
sorrow, but her son says that is because she is so
unselfish, and is always thinking of other people.
Isn't it wonderful how many brave, unselfish
people there are in the world?
"I have met a surgeon. He is the gentleman in
whose car we went to New Haven last Saturday, and
he is just as nice and kind as he can be. He is
very clever too, and has performed some wonderful
operations, but oh, Undine dear, I am afraid I
shall never have the courage to speak to him about
Aunt Jessie. Arizona is so far away, and it would
be so terribly presumptuous to even suggest the
possibility of a great surgeon's taking such a
journey to see a person he didn't even know.
Still, if it could only happen--I pray about it
every day.
"I must stop writing now, and study a little
before breakfast. Be sure to write again very
soon, and don't forget to give me every scrap of
news about every one and everything. Kiss Roland's
dear soft nose for me, and tell him not to forget
his old mistress. Heaps of love and kisses for
everybody, with a good share for yourself thrown
in, from
"Your true friend,
"MARJORIE GRAHAM."
When Elsie entered the sitting-room, she found her uncle and cousin
already at the breakfast table. Mrs. Carleton had a headache, and was
breakfasting in bed. Mr. Carleton's morning greeting was as pleasant and
affectionate as usual, but Elsie merely vouchsafed a slight nod, and a
muttered "good-morning," and then kept her eyes steadily on her plate,
as though to avoid any friendly overtures on Marjorie's part.
"What are you little girls going to do to-day?" Mr. Carleton inquired
pleasantly, as he rose from the table.
"I'm going to dancing-school this morning," said Elsie, "and then to
lunch with Carol."
Mr. Carlton glanced inquiringly at Marjorie.
"And you?" he asked kindly--"are you going to dancing-school, too?"
Marjorie hesitated, and her color rose. It had been suggested that she
should accompany Elsie to the dancing class that morning, and that Aunt
Julia should make arrangements about having her admitted as a regular
pupil, but after what had happened last night she did not feel at all
sure that Elsie would desire her society.
"I'm--I'm not quite sure," she faltered; "I think Aunt Julia may want me
to go out with her."
Mr. Carleton looked a little troubled, and when he left the room he
beckoned his daughter to follow him.
"Elsie dear," he said in a rather low voice, as he put on his overcoat
in the entry, "I wish you would try to do something to give Marjorie a
good time to-day. She is looking rather down-hearted this morning, and
I'm afraid she may be a little homesick. Can't you arrange to take her
out to luncheon with you?"
Elsie shrugged her shoulders.
"She hasn't been invited," she said, shortly. She did not think it
necessary to add that Carol Hastings had proposed that Marjorie should
make one of the party, but that she herself had opposed the plan,
declaring that they would have a much pleasanter time by themselves.
Mr. Carleton frowned.
"I should think you knew Carol Hastings well enough to ask her if you
might bring Marjorie with you," he said impatiently. "Remember, Elsie,
what I have told you several times before; I won't have Marjorie
neglected."
Now it was rather unfortunate that Mr. Carleton should have chosen just
this particular time for reminding his daughter of her duty. As a rule,
his words would have produced the desired effect, for Elsie stood
considerably in awe of her father, but just at present she was very
angry with Marjorie, and this admonition only made her angrier still.
"Marjorie is all right," she said, sulkily; "she manages to have a good
time wherever she goes. If you knew as much about her as I do you
wouldn't worry for fear she might be neglected."
Mr. Carleton did not look satisfied, but he had an appointment to keep,
and there was no time for argument, so, after giving his daughter a
good-bye kiss, and telling her to be an unselfish little girl, he
hurried away, and had soon forgotten the incident in the interest of
more important matters.
Elsie did not go back to the parlor, but went at once to her mother's
room, where she remained for some time with the door closed. Marjorie,
having finished her breakfast, wandered aimlessly over to the window,
where she stood looking down at the crowds of people and vehicles in the
street below. It was a lovely morning and, early as it was, the park
seemed full of children. Some had already mounted their ponies, and
others were on roller skates or bicycles. How Marjorie longed to join
them, but going out alone was strictly forbidden. She was feeling very
unhappy, and more homesick than at any time since coming to New York.
"I must get something to do or I shall make a goose of myself and begin
to cry," she said desperately, and picking up the first book she found
on the table, she plunged into it haphazard, and when Elsie returned she
found her cousin to all appearances quite absorbed in "The Letters of
Queen Victoria."
Elsie did not speak, but seating herself at the piano, began practicing
exercises as if her life depended on it. Marjorie closed her book, and
sat watching her cousin in silence for several minutes; then she spoke.
"Elsie."
"Well, what is it?" inquired Elsie, wheeling round on the piano stool.
"Aren't you going to be friends with me?"
"I certainly am not unless you intend to apologize for the outrageous
things you said to me last night. I've been telling Mamma about it, and
she is very angry."
Marjorie rose.
"I can't apologize, Elsie; you know I can't," she said, steadily, and
without another word she turned and left the room.
When Mrs. Carleton entered her niece's room an hour later, she found
Marjorie curled up in a little disconsolate heap on the bed, her face
buried in the pillows. Aunt Julia was still in her morning wrapper, and
was looking decidedly worried.
"Marjorie," she began in a rather fretful tone, as she closed the door,
and sank wearily into the arm-chair, "I am very much distressed by what
Elsie tells me. I have come to ask you what it all means."
Marjorie raised a swollen, tear-stained face from the pillows.
"What has Elsie told you?" she inquired anxiously.
Mrs. Carleton pressed her hand to her forehead.
"O dear!" she sighed, "my head aches so this morning, and I do dislike
all these quarrels and arguments. I did hope you and Elsie would get on
together without quarreling."
"I don't want to quarrel," protested Marjorie; "what does Elsie say
about me?"
"She says you have been very unkind and unjust to her. She won't tell me
what it is all about. I tried to make her tell, but Elsie is so
honorable; she hates tale-bearing. But I know you have hurt her pride,
and made her very unhappy."
Marjorie was silent; what could she say? And after a moment her aunt
went on in her fretful, complaining voice.
"I don't believe you have the least idea what a noble, splendid girl
Elsie is. It was rather hard for her at first when she heard you were
coming to spend the winter, for of course it couldn't help making some
difference. She has never had to share anything with any one else
before. But she was so sweet and unselfish about it, and I did hope
things might go on as they had begun. But now you have begun to
quarrel, and I suppose there will be nothing but trouble and
unpleasantness all winter."
"She was so sweet and unselfish about it!" How those words hurt
Marjorie, and all the time she had been thinking that Elsie had looked
forward to meeting her almost, if not quite as much, as she had looked
forward to knowing the cousin who was "the next best thing to a sister."
It was only by a mighty effort that she managed to choke back the flood
of scalding tears, which threatened to overwhelm her.
"I'm very sorry, Aunt Julia," she said tremulously; "I didn't mean to
quarrel with Elsie. If she had told you what it was about perhaps you
would have understood."
"Well, she wouldn't tell," said Mrs. Carleton, crossly, "so there is no
use in talking about that. All I want to say to you is that I am very
much annoyed, and sincerely hope nothing so unpleasant will happen
again. Elsie has gone to dancing-school, and Hortense has gone with her,
as my head was so bad. Now I am going back to my room to lie down for a
while; perhaps I may be better by luncheon time."
That was the most unhappy day Marjorie had ever spent in her life. It
seemed to her as if the morning would never end, and when her aunt
appeared at luncheon she still wore an air of injured dignity, and
entertained Marjorie during the meal, with a long account of Elsie's
many accomplishments, a subject of which her niece was becoming heartily
tired, although she would scarcely have admitted the fact even to
herself. Soon after luncheon Mr. Carleton telephoned to say that he
would come uptown in time to drive with his wife, and Aunt Julia
proposed that Marjorie should go for a walk with Hortense. The girl's
own head was aching by this time, and she was glad of a brisk walk in
the keen, frosty air, but she was so unusually silent and preoccupied,
that the maid asked her anxiously if she "had the homesickness."
"Yes," said Marjorie, with a catch in her voice, "I've got it badly
to-day."
"Ah, I understand," murmured Hortense, softly, "Mademoiselle is like
me--I, too, often have the homesickness."
Elsie did not reach home till after five, as Carol's mother had taken
the two girls to the theater, and even then she took no notice of
Marjorie, but went at once to her mother's room, where Marjorie heard
her giving a long and animated account of the play she had seen.
"By the way," remarked Mr. Carleton at dinner that evening, "I forgot to
ask about the Club--how did the poems turn out?"
There was a moment's embarrassed silence, and Marjorie's heart began to
beat very fast; then Elsie spoke.
"They were all very silly," she said, indifferently. "I told Lulu it was
nonsense having all the girls write poems."
"Whose poem was the best?" Mr. Carleton asked.
"They made me president of the Club," said Elsie, her eyes bent on her
plate; "my poem got the most votes."
"I was sure it would," murmured Mrs. Carleton, with an adoring glance at
her clever daughter. "Why didn't you tell us about it before,
darling--you knew how interested we would be?"
"Let me see the poem," said Mr. Carleton, good-naturedly; "I should like
to judge its merits for myself."
"I can't; I've torn it up." Elsie tried to speak in a tone of complete
indifference, but her cheeks were crimson, and her father watched her
curiously.
"My darling child, how very foolish!" remonstrated Mrs. Carleton. "You
know your father and I always want to see everything you write. Why in
the world did you tear it up?"
"Oh, it wasn't any good," said Elsie, with an uneasy glance at Marjorie;
"some of the girls thought Lulu's poem was better."
"I don't believe it was, though," Mrs. Carleton maintained with
conviction. "Wasn't Elsie's poem much the best, Marjorie?"
It was a dreadful moment for poor Marjorie. She had never told a lie in
her life, and yet how could she offend her uncle and aunt, who were
doing so much for her, and who both adored Elsie? She cast an appealing
glance at her cousin, and remained silent.
"Oh, you needn't ask Marjorie," remarked Elsie, with a disagreeable
laugh; "she doesn't like my poem. She only got five votes herself, so I
suppose it's rather hard for her to judge of other people's poetry."
Mr. Carleton frowned, and Mrs. Carleton looked distressed, but no more
was said on the subject, for which Marjorie felt sincerely thankful.
The next day was Sunday, and the most unhappy, homesick day Marjorie had
spent in New York. Her uncle was the only member of the family who
continued to treat her as usual. Elsie scarcely spoke to her, and Aunt
Julia, though evidently making an effort to be kind, showed so plainly
by her manner that she was both hurt and displeased, that poor
Marjorie's heart grew heavier and heavier. They all went to church in
the morning, and in the afternoon Elsie went for a drive with her
mother, and Mr. Carleton retired to his own room to read and write
letters. Marjorie began her usual home letter, but had not written half
a page when she broke down, and spent the next half hour in having a
good cry, which was perhaps the most satisfactory thing she could have
done under the circumstances.
She had just dried her eyes, and having made a brave resolution not to
be so foolish again, was sitting down with the intention of going on
with her letter, when she heard her uncle's voice calling her from the
sitting-room.
"Come here, Marjorie," said Mr. Carleton, kindly, as his niece appeared
in answer to his summons. "Sit down and let us have a little talk before
the others come home."
Marjorie complied. She hoped devoutly that her uncle would not notice
that she had been crying, but perhaps Uncle Henry's eyes were sharper
than his family always suspected.
"Marjorie," he said abruptly, "I want you to tell me what this trouble
is between you and Elsie."
Marjorie gave a little gasp, and her cheeks grew pink.
"I--I'm afraid I can't tell you, Uncle Henry," she faltered; "you had
better ask Elsie."
"I have asked her, and so has your aunt, but she refused to tell us
anything except that you have quarreled about something, and that you
have treated her rather unkindly."
Marjorie's eyes flashed indignantly, and she bit her lips to keep back
the angry words.
"Now I happen to know a good deal about these little quarrels of
Elsie's," Mr. Carleton went on quietly. "She is a good girl, and a
clever one, too, but she has her faults and I have no reason to suppose
that you are any more to blame than she in this case. All I want is a
clear account of what happened, and then I can settle this tempest in a
teapot, which I can see has been making you both unhappy for the past
two days."
By this time Marjorie had succeeded in controlling her temper, and her
voice was quite clear and steady as she answered--
"I am very sorry, Uncle Henry, but if Elsie hasn't told you what the
trouble is, I am afraid I can't tell either. Please don't be angry, or
think me disrespectful, but I can't tell; it wouldn't be fair."
Mr. Carleton was evidently displeased.
"Very well," he said, turning away coldly, and taking up a book, "I have
no more to say on the matter. I am sorry, for I hoped you would have
sufficient confidence in your aunt and me to trust us, and confide in
us. I do not wish to force you to tell us anything against your will,
but you must remember that your mother has placed you under our care."
The tears rushed to Marjorie's eyes.
"Oh, Uncle Henry!" she began, then checked herself abruptly, and, with a
half suppressed sob, turned and fled back to her own room.
It was more than an hour later when Elsie presented herself at her
cousin's door.
"May I come in, Marjorie?" she inquired in a rather conciliatory tone.
Marjorie looked up from the letter she was writing; her face brightening
with sudden hope.
"Of course you may," she said, heartily.
"Oh, Elsie, do let us make up; I can't stand not being friends with
people I love."
Elsie advanced slowly into the room and closed the door.
"Papa has been talking to me," she said, "and I have promised him to
forgive you for what you said to me the other night. You--you didn't
tell him anything, did you?"
"No," said Marjorie indignantly, "of course I didn't. He asked me, but I
wouldn't tell. I'm afraid I made him angry."
Elsie looked much relieved.
"That's all right," she said, speaking more pleasantly than she had done
since the meeting of the Poetry Club. "We won't say any more about it.
I've torn up that silly poem, and nobody is going to remember it. If
Beverly Randolph should ever say anything to you, you can tell him it
was just a joke. Now come into my room, and I'll tell you all about the
good time Carol and I had yesterday."
But although Marjorie accepted the olive branch, and she and Elsie were
apparently as good friends as ever that evening, her confidence in her
cousin had been cruelly shaken, and she told herself sadly that she
could never feel quite the same towards Elsie again. Still, it was a
great comfort to be on good terms once more, and to see the worried
expression disappear from Aunt Julia's face, even though she could not
help feeling a slight shock on hearing her aunt remark in a low tone to
her uncle at the dinner table:
"Isn't Elsie sweet? I really think she has the most lovable, forgiving
disposition I have ever known."