BEVERLY SINGS "MANDALAY"
IT was a stormy December afternoon, about ten days later, and Marjorie
was alone in her room preparing her lessons for the next day. Elsie had
gone shopping with her mother, and Hortense had been sent on an errand.
Marjorie was aroused from the intricacies of a difficult mathematical
problem by a ring at the bell, and on going to the door, found Beverly
Randolph standing on the threshold.
It was the first time the two had been alone together since the evening
of the Initiation, and in spite of herself, Marjorie felt her cheeks
growing hot as she asked the visitor to come in. But Beverly had no
intention of referring to unpleasant bygones.
"I'm so glad to find you at home," he said, with his pleasant smile and
in the voice that always put people at their ease. "My mother sent me to
ask if you would come and sit with her for a while this afternoon,
provided you have nothing more important to do. She is laid up with a
cold, and is feeling rather blue and forlorn."
"I should love to come," said Marjorie, her face brightening at the
prospect. "I was afraid your mother might not be well when I didn't see
her at luncheon. I hope she isn't really ill."
"Oh, no; nothing but a disagreeable cold, that has kept her in the house
for the past two days. I'm glad you can come, for I'm sure it will cheer
her up."
"All right," said Marjorie; "I'll come in just a minute. I must leave a
note for Aunt Julia in case she should get home before I do."
Marjorie found Mrs. Randolph sitting in an arm-chair by the fire,
looking rather pale and tired, but her greeting to the girl was just as
kind and cheerful as usual, and Marjorie hoped that it was only in her
imagination that she saw that sad, wistful expression in her kind
friend's eyes.
"Now sit down and tell me about all you have been doing," said Mrs.
Randolph, when the first greetings had been exchanged. "I love to hear
about the things girls are interested in. My little Barbara used to tell
me of all her good times as well as her troubles. I am so glad you have
brought your work--what are you making?"
"A shawl for my aunt's Christmas present; one of the girls at school
taught me the stitch, and I think it's going to be very pretty. I shall
have to work hard, though, to finish it in time. Do you like the color?"
"Very much," said Mrs. Randolph. "I suppose this will be your first
Christmas away from home?"
A shadow crossed Marjorie's bright face. "I try not to think of it," she
said. "It's going to be pretty hard, but every one has been so kind, and
Uncle Henry and Aunt Julia are doing so much for me, that it wouldn't be
right to be unhappy. I think perhaps if I keep very busy I shall manage
to get on all right. Aunt Jessie says that's a good way of making the
best of things that can't be helped."
Mrs. Randolph said nothing, but the look she gave Marjorie was such an
understanding one that the girl's heart warmed towards her more and
more. The next half-hour slipped away very pleasantly. Mrs. Randolph was
one of those rare people who have the power of drawing others out, and
Marjorie chatted away to her of school and school-friends, and all the
little unimportant happenings of her New York life, with almost as much
freedom as she would have talked to her mother or aunt. Then Mrs.
Randolph asked her if she liked reading aloud, and when Marjorie
assured her that she had read a great deal to Aunt Jessie, she explained
that, owing to a cold in her eyes, she had not been able to read herself
for several days. Marjorie was delighted to be of real use, and they
were soon deep in an interesting story. Marjorie read aloud very well,
and it was an accomplishment of which she was rather proud.
At five o'clock Beverly, who had gone to his room to "cram," as he
expressed it, returned, and his mother rang the bell for tea.
"Marjorie and I have had a delightful afternoon," she said; "she seems
to be almost as fond of reading aloud as I am of listening. I am going
to be very selfish and ask her to come again to-morrow, provided she can
spare the time. The doctor doesn't want me to use my eyes much for
several days."
"I shall just love to come," declared Marjorie eagerly, "and I can
easily manage it. My lessons aren't very hard, and I always have a good
deal of time to myself every day."
"Don't you and your cousin ever go off together in the afternoons?"
Beverly inquired bluntly.
Marjorie blushed.
"Not very often," she admitted reluctantly. "You see, Elsie has so many
more friends than I have, and they are always doing things together. I
like the girls at school ever so much, and they are all very nice and
kind to me, but of course they don't know me very well yet."
"How did the last meeting of the Club come off?" Beverly asked. "I was
sorry I couldn't go, but I had another engagement."
Marjorie was conscious of a sensation of embarrassment at this mention
of the Club, for she had not forgotten the secret that she and Beverly
shared together, but she tried to answer quite naturally.
"Oh, it was very pleasant. The girls have decided to sew for the little
blind children at the 'Home For Blind Babies.' We sewed for three
quarters of an hour, and then Carol said we might as well stop, and
begin to get ready for the boys. They weren't invited till nine, but
some of the girls seemed to think it would take some time to get ready
for them, though there really wasn't anything in particular to do. I
hope they'll sew a little longer next time, for if they don't I'm afraid
the Club won't accomplish very much."
Mrs. Randolph and Beverly both laughed, and then Beverly sauntered over
to the piano, and began to drum.
"Sing something, dear," said his mother. "Are you fond of music,
Marjorie?"
"I think I should be if I had a chance of hearing much," said Marjorie,
smiling, "but until I came to New York I had scarcely ever heard any
music except the boys singing on the ranch. Mother used to play a little
when she was a girl, but we haven't any piano. I love to hear Elsie
play."
"Well, I think you will like to hear Beverly sing; you know he is on the
college Glee Club. Sing that pretty Irish ballad, 'She Is Far From the
Land,' Beverly; I am sure Marjorie will like that."
Beverly laughingly protested that he had no voice whatever, and was sure
Marjorie would want to run away the moment he began to sing, but
good-naturedly yielded to his mother's request, and after striking a few
preliminary chords, began in a clear tenor voice--
"'She is far from the land where the young hero lies.'"
Marjorie--who had a real love for music--was much impressed, and at the
close of the ballad, begged so earnestly for more, that Beverly could
not help being flattered, and his mother beamed with pleasure.
Beverly sang several more ballads, and one or two college songs, and
then, after strumming idly on the piano for a moment, as if uncertain
what to sing next, he suddenly broke into an air Marjorie knew.
"'In the old Mulniam pagoda,
Lookin' eastward to the sea;
There's a Burma gal a-waitin',
And I know she thinks of me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees,
And the Temple bells they say,
Come you back, you British soldier,
Come you back to Mandalay.
"'Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old flotilla lay,
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin'
From Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin' fishes play,
And the sun comes up like thunder,
Outer China 'cross the bay.'"
Marjorie turned with a start, arrested by the sound of a low,
half-suppressed sob. Mrs. Randolph had covered her face with her hands,
and was crying softly. At the same moment Beverly also turned, and, with
an exclamation of dismay, hastily sprang to his feet, and hurried to
his mother's side.
"Oh, Mother dear, I'm so sorry!" cried the boy, dropping on his knees,
and trying to draw Mrs. Randolph's hands down from her face. "I never
thought; it was very careless. Oh, Mother darling, please don't
cry--please forgive me!"
At the sound of her son's voice, Mrs. Randolph looked up, and tried to
smile through her tears.
"Never mind, dear," she said, gently, "it was very foolish of me, but
that song--you know how fond she was of it."
"Yes, Mother, I know; I was a brute to have forgotten." And Beverly put
his strong young arms tenderly round his mother. Mrs. Randolph laid her
head on his shoulder for a moment, as if she found comfort in the touch,
and then she roused herself with an effort, dried her eyes, and turned
to Marjorie.
"You must excuse me for being so foolish, dear," she said, "but that was
my little Barbara's favorite song; she was always asking Beverly to sing
it. I don't think I have heard it since--since she went away."
There were tears of sympathy in Marjorie's eyes, and although she said
nothing, the look she gave her friend touched Mrs. Randolph, and
perhaps comforted her more than any words would have done.
[Illustration: "OH, MOTHER DEAR, I'M SO SORRY!"--_Page 243._]
Beverly did not sing again, but quietly closed the piano, and for the
rest of the afternoon his merry boyish face was unusually grave.
"You have given me a great deal of pleasure," Mrs. Randolph said, when
Marjorie at last rose to go. "I hope you will come again to-morrow. It
is very tiresome to have to stay in the house all day, especially when
one hasn't the solace of reading."
Marjorie said she would surely come again, and then she hurried back to
their own apartment, where she found her aunt and cousin, who had come
in some time before.
Mrs. Carleton had read Marjorie's note, and had no objection to the
girl's spending as much time with the invalid as she liked.
"Was Beverly at home?" Elsie inquired, anxiously, following her cousin
to her room.
"He was there some of the time," said Marjorie; "he had lessons to do at
first, but he came in for tea. Mrs. Randolph asked him to sing--he has a
beautiful voice."
"You certainly have a way of getting what you want," remarked Elsie
in a rather dissatisfied tone; "I wonder how you manage."
"Manage what?" demanded Marjorie in amazement; "what in the world do you
mean, Elsie?"
Elsie shrugged her shoulders.
"Oh, I guess you know," she said, sarcastically, and walked out of the
room, leaving Marjorie very much puzzled, and more than a little
uncomfortable.
Mrs. Randolph did not recover from her cold as quickly as she had hoped,
and she was confined to the house for nearly a week. Her eyes, too,
continued troublesome, and reading and sewing were strictly forbidden.
So it came to be quite a natural thing that Marjorie should spend an
hour every afternoon in the Randolphs' apartment, and the girl grew to
look forward to those hours as the pleasantest of the whole day.
"You remind me more of my little Barbara every day," Mrs. Randolph said
to her once, and Marjorie felt that she had received a great compliment.
She was growing to feel a deep interest in this Barbara, whose tragic
death had cast such a shadow of sorrow over her mother's life, but she
had too much tact, and was too kind-hearted, to show undue curiosity on
a painful subject, and so, though there were many questions she would
have liked to ask about this unknown Barbara, she refrained from asking
one, and was fain to content herself with the stray bits of information
that Mrs. Randolph or Beverly occasionally let fall.
When Mrs. Randolph was well again Marjorie greatly missed the daily
chat, and pleasant hour of reading aloud. The drives with Aunt Julia,
shut up in the brougham, with only one window open, proved a most
unsatisfactory substitute, but her aunt was very kind, and showed so
much real interest in the Christmas box she was preparing for her dear
ones at home that Marjorie reproached herself bitterly for not finding
Aunt Julia's society as agreeable as Mrs. Randolph's. But Christmas was
drawing near, and there were times when Marjorie fought desperately
against the homesickness, which seemed almost greater than she could
bear.
To add to everything else, she caught a feverish cold, and Mrs.
Carleton, who was always nervous about illness, insisted on her
remaining in the house; a state of affairs hitherto unknown to healthy
Marjorie, who had never in her life spent a day in bed.
It was on the second afternoon of headache and sore throat that Mrs.
Randolph came to the rescue. Marjorie had come to the end of her
resources. She had read till her eyes ached, and sewed on Christmas
presents until she felt that she couldn't take another stitch. The
longing for fresh air and exercise was almost beyond her endurance, and
yet she dared not even open a window, for fear of incurring her aunt's
displeasure. Mrs. Carleton and Elsie were out, but Hortense had been
left in charge, with strict injunctions to see that Mademoiselle
Marjorie kept out of draughts, and took her medicine regularly. Marjorie
was just wondering in her desperation whether a walk up and down the
steam-heated hotel corridor would be regarded in the light of an
imprudence, when there was a ring at the bell, and Hortense announced
Mrs. Randolph.
"I have only just heard you were ill," the visitor said kindly, taking
Marjorie's hand in hers, and looking with sympathetic interest into the
pale, woe-begone face. "Your aunt told Beverly at luncheon that you had
a bad cold. You should have let me know sooner; I can't have my kind
little friend laid up without trying to return some of her goodness to
me."
"It wasn't goodness at all," said Marjorie, flushing with pleasure; "it
was just having a lovely time. I was thinking only yesterday, what a
very selfish girl I must be, for I couldn't help being sorry you didn't
need me any more, it's so pleasant to be needed."
Marjorie's voice trembled a little, for she was feeling rather weak and
forlorn, and Mrs. Randolph drew her down beside her on the sofa.
"I think I always need you, dear," she said. "I have missed your visits
very much, and reading to myself doesn't seem half as pleasant as having
a nice little girl read aloud to me. Still, I am glad to have the use of
my eyes again, especially as we are going away next week."
"Going away!" repeated Marjorie, and her face expressed so much dismay
that Mrs. Randolph could not help smiling.
"We are not going for good," she explained, "but Beverly's vacation
begins next Wednesday, and he is anxious to spend Christmas at our
Virginia home. We shall only be away about ten days."
Marjorie looked much relieved.
"I was afraid you meant you were going to Europe, or somewhere far
away," she said, "and that I shouldn't see you any more. I don't know
what I should do without you."
"And I should miss you very much, too," said Mrs. Randolph, "but nothing
so unpleasant is going to happen, I hope. What are your plans for the
holidays?"
"Oh, nothing in particular. Elsie and I are invited to several parties,
and Aunt Julia's sister, Mrs. Ward, is having a tree on Christmas night.
I can't help wishing the holidays were over. It will be my first
Christmas away from home, you know."
"I suppose your family will miss you as much as you miss them," Mrs.
Randolph said, sympathetically.
"Yes, I know they will, and that is one of the hardest things to bear. I
had a letter from Undine to-day, and she says they are all very sad,
though they are trying hard to be brave and cheerful."
"Who is Undine?"
"Oh, haven't I told you about her? She's a girl who lives at the ranch,
and we call her Undine, but it isn't her real name."
Mrs. Randolph looked interested.
"What is her real name?" she asked, anxious to cheer Marjorie by talking
of home and friends.
Marjorie opened her lips to explain, but suddenly remembered something
Beverly had told her. It would be scarcely possible to tell Undine's
story without mentioning the fatal subject of the earthquake, so she
only said:
"We don't know her real name, but the people she lived with before she
came to the ranch called her Sally. She didn't like Sally, and asked us
to call her something else, and I suggested Undine."
Mrs. Randolph laughed. "A rather romantic name for a flesh and blood
girl," she said; "how old is your Undine?"
"About fifteen, we think, but we are not sure, and she doesn't know
herself. Lulu Bell says you have a beautiful home in Virginia. I suppose
you will be glad to go there for the holidays."
"Yes, we all love it very much. It is a dear old place; my husband's
family have lived there for generations, and my old home, where I lived
before I married, is only a couple of miles away."
"I have always thought Virginia must be a very interesting place," said
Marjorie. "I have read ever so many books about the early settlers in
Jamestown. Have you read 'To Have and to Hold,' and 'White Aprons'?"
"Yes, I have read both. Our home is on the James River, not far from
Jamestown--would you like to see it?"
"I should love it," said Marjorie, heartily. "I don't suppose I ever
shall though," she added, with a sigh.
"I don't see why not," said Mrs. Randolph, smiling. "How would you like
to go home with us for the holidays?"
Marjorie was speechless. For the first moment she could scarcely believe
that her friend was in earnest.
"I came this afternoon on purpose to propose it," Mrs. Randolph went on,
convinced by the girl's flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes that there was
no doubt about her wanting to accept the invitation. "Beverly and I were
speaking of it last evening. We shall be alone except for Dr. Randolph,
who is going with us, but we have some pleasant young people in the
neighborhood, and there is generally a good deal going on at Christmas.
I think you would have a pleasant time."
"It would be the next best thing to going home," declared Marjorie,
"but, oh, dear Mrs. Randolph, are you sure you really want me?"
"Quite sure," said Mrs. Randolph, kissing her. "It will make us all
very happy to have our nice little friend with us."
"If only Aunt Julia will let me go," said Marjorie, with a vivid
recollection of her aunt's rebuke on the evening after the football
game.
But, contrary to Marjorie's expectations, Mrs. Carleton made no
objection to the plan, beyond hoping that the Randolphs would not find
her niece too much care. Neither did Elsie make any of the unpleasant
remarks her cousin expected. Since the first meeting of the Poetry Club,
Beverly and she had not had much to say to each other. Beverly was
always polite, but Elsie could never feel quite comfortable in his
society, and the knowledge that he was not to share in any of the
holiday gayeties was something of a relief. She and Marjorie were
apparently very good friends, but there was a look in Marjorie's eyes
sometimes when they rested on her cousin, which Elsie did not like. So
when Mrs. Carleton consulted her daughter on the subject of Marjorie's
going to Virginia with the Randolph's, Elsie said good-naturedly:
"Oh, let her go, Mamma; she'll have a much better time than she would
here. It would be such a bother to have to take her everywhere, and see
she had partners at the dances, and all that. Papa would be sure to ask
questions and make a fuss if she didn't have a good time."
So the invitation was accepted, and Marjorie wrote a long, joyful letter
to her mother, and went to bed that night, feeling happier than she had
done since coming to New York.