BREAKING THE NEWS
"DO sit down, Marjorie; you haven't been still for five minutes since
luncheon." Elsie spoke in a tone of weary exasperation, as she laid down
the book she had been trying to read, and regarded her cousin's flushed
cheeks and sparkling eyes, with a half amused, half annoyed expression.
Marjorie laughed nervously.
"I'm sorry I've been so restless," she said, "but how can I help it.
Just think, they'll be here this very day, and Mrs. Randolph doesn't
know a single thing yet."
"Of course I know it's the most exciting thing that ever happened,"
Elsie admitted, with resignation, "but one can't help getting tired even
of exciting things when one has heard of nothing else for a whole week.
It will be a week to-morrow since you got that telegram, and I don't
believe you've thought of another thing since."
"I don't believe I have," agreed Marjorie, "but then how could I? Oh,
Elsie, I'm so happy when I think it has all come about through my
recognizing that photograph! Just suppose Beverly and I hadn't gone to
Mammy's cabin that afternoon. I might never have seen a picture of
Barbara, and the Randolphs might never have known."
"I wonder how they are going to break the news to Mrs. Randolph,"
remarked Elsie, without heeding her cousin's last observation. "I should
think it would be dreadfully dangerous; the shock might kill her."
Marjorie's bright face clouded.
"I can't help worrying about it," she said, "but I am sure Dr. Randolph
will find a way of doing it. It's wonderful to see her so calm, just
doing every-day things, and talking as if nothing unusual were
happening, when we are all so excited and nervous."
"I really don't see how you managed to keep her from suspecting when you
were on the way home," said Elsie; "I'm afraid I should have let out
something without intending to."
"I couldn't do that," said Marjorie, gravely. "Think how terrible it
would have been if Mrs. Randolph had hoped and then been disappointed.
I was sure myself, but neither Dr. Randolph nor Beverly believed it
could be true. I shall never forget that last evening in Virginia.
Beverly and I were both almost ill from excitement, and yet we had to
act just as if nothing unusual had happened. Fortunately the doctor and
Beverly were to start the first thing in the morning, so we all went to
bed early. I don't believe any of us slept a wink; I know I didn't. The
day on the train wasn't quite so bad, because Mrs. Patterson was with
us, and she hadn't been told anything, and could be natural without
trying. I pretended to be very much interested in a book, so as not to
have to talk much, but I couldn't tell you what it was about. And all
the time Mrs. Randolph was just as sweet and calm as possible, and
worried about me because my hands were cold, and I couldn't eat."
"I think you were very plucky," said Elsie.
The bright color rushed into Marjorie's cheeks; this was the first
compliment Elsie had ever paid her.
"I wasn't at all plucky," she said, modestly; "any one else would have
done the same thing. I'm glad you think I was, though, for I do want you
to like me."
"Of course I like you," said Elsie, reddening in her turn. "There's the
door-bell; I wonder if it's Mamma."
"Perhaps it's a letter," cried Marjorie, springing to her feet; "I ought
to have a letter from home to-day. I haven't heard a word since that
little note from Aunt Jessie the morning after Barbara was found."
But it was not a letter. Neither was it Mrs. Carleton, who had gone
driving with a friend. In a moment the faithful Hortense appeared with a
message.
"Madame Randolph has sent to inquire if Mademoiselle Marjorie will come
to her apartment for a short time. Her friend has been obliged to go
out, and she is alone."
Marjorie clasped her hands in dismay, and turned a little pale.
"Send word you're very busy, and can't possibly come," suggested Elsie.
But Marjorie shook her head.
"I shall have to go," she said, with a little gasp. "Mrs. Randolph has
been so good to me; she would think it so strange if I didn't come when
she sent for me. Say I will be there in a few minutes, Hortense."
"You really are a wonder, Marjorie," remarked Elsie, with involuntary
admiration, as Hortense left the room with the message. "I'm sure I
should never be able to do it."
"Yes, you would," said Marjorie, smiling and without another word she
followed Hortense out of the room.
Marjorie's heart was beating very fast when she rang Mrs. Randolph's
bell five minutes later, but when that lady herself opened the door, and
greeted her guest with her usual serene cheerfulness, the girl pulled
herself together with a mighty effort, and her friend noticed nothing
unusual in her manner, except that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes
shining.
"I am so glad you could come this afternoon," Mrs. Randolph said,
leading the way to the sitting-room. "I haven't seen you for days, and
was beginning to feel quite neglected." She spoke playfully, but
Marjorie felt the gentle reproach in her tone, and her heart beat faster
than ever.
"Indeed I didn't mean to neglect you," she said, eagerly, "but--but you
see I have had a good deal to do since I came home; school began on
Monday."
"I understand, dear," said Mrs. Randolph, smiling, "and I am not blaming
you in the least, but I have missed you very much."
"You have had Mrs. Patterson," said Marjorie, as she took the seat her
friend indicated beside her on the sofa.
"Oh, yes, and she has been a great comfort, for I have missed Beverly
terribly. He and the doctor will be at home this afternoon, you know."
"Yes," said Marjorie; "Mrs. Patterson told us at luncheon. She said you
had a headache; I hope it's better."
"Much better, thank you, dear. I didn't come down to luncheon because I
wanted to be quite bright and well this evening when Beverly is here.
This is always a rather sad day for me; it is my little Barbara's
birthday."
Marjorie's heart gave one big jump, and began throbbing so fast she
could scarcely breathe. She could not have spoken had her life depended
on it, but fortunately Mrs. Randolph did not appear to expect an answer.
"My little girl would have been fifteen to-day," she said, sadly. "It
seems hard to realize; she was such a child when she went away. I have
missed Beverly so much to-day; he and I always talk of Barbara on her
birthday."
"Would you like to talk to me about her, Mrs. Randolph?" said Marjorie,
in a voice that was scarcely above a whisper.
"I should like it very much. Indeed, that is why I sent for you. Mrs.
Patterson has gone out. I offered to go with her, but she said she had
some important business to attend to, and would rather go alone. I am
afraid something is troubling her, and she doesn't want to worry me
about it."
Marjorie, who knew that Mrs. Patterson had gone to the station to meet
the travelers, in answer to an urgent telegram from Dr. Randolph, said
nothing. Mrs. Patterson, being a nervous, excitable little woman, had
been purposely kept in ignorance of the real reason of her cousins'
Western trip, and it was in order to break the news to her that the
doctor had wired her to meet him at the station, and to say nothing on
the subject of her errand to Mrs. Randolph. Consequently, the poor
little lady had been filled by apprehensions of something dreadful
having happened to one or both of the travelers, and had departed in a
state of perturbation well calculated to arouse Mrs. Randolph's
suspicions that something was troubling her.
There was a moment's pause, and then Mrs. Randolph went on.
"I never talk of my little girl to strangers--it is all too sacred for
that--but you are not a stranger any more. I have loved you dearly ever
since we stood together at my Barbara's grave, and you showed me by your
silent sympathy how well you understood."
Marjorie could not speak, but she took her friend's hand, and stroked it
softly, while Mrs. Randolph went on, calmly, though with a quiver in her
voice:
"I used to try to make the children's birthdays as happy as possible; I
thought they would be pleasant memories for them when they were older.
Even the year after my husband died, when my heart was very sad, I
wanted them to have a merry time. Little children's lives should never
be saddened. I think you would have loved my little girl, Marjorie; she
was very sweet."
"I know I should," said Marjorie, with a sob, that was half hysterical.
"I am afraid she was a sad rogue sometimes," said Mrs. Randolph,
smiling; "Beverly and I often laugh even now over the memory of some of
her pranks. I want him to remember all the bright, pleasant things, and
not dwell too much on the sadness."
"Mammy told me about some of Barbara's pranks," said Marjorie, "she
showed me her photograph, too."
Mrs. Randolph unfastened a small gold locket from a chain she always
wore about her neck, and opened it. Inside was the miniature of a
merry-faced girl of twelve--the same face that had looked at Marjorie
from the photograph in Mammy's cabin.
"That was taken only a few weeks before my little girl went away," she
said. "She was just twelve then. I suppose she would look older now, but
I can never think of Babs as growing up."
Then Marjorie had an inspiration. How it came she never knew, but she
had yielded to it before giving herself time to think.
"That picture reminds me of some one I know," she said, and the moment
the words were out she would have given everything she possessed to have
left them unsaid.
"Who is it?" Mrs. Randolph asked, her eyes still resting lovingly on the
face of the miniature.
"A girl who has been at my home since last summer," said Marjorie, who
was beginning to feel cold and sick with excitement and apprehension,
but was determined to go on now that she had begun. "She came to the
ranch one day all by herself. She had walked all the way from the
railroad. It was a very strange case; she had had an accident, and
forgotten everything about herself, even her own name."
"Forgotten her name!" said Mrs. Randolph, incredulously. "What a curious
thing--are you sure her story was true?"
"Oh, yes, quite sure. She was such a dear girl, we couldn't doubt her.
Besides Father wrote to the people she had lived with since her
accident, and they said everything Undine had told us was true. We
called her Undine because it was pretty, and we didn't know her real
name."
"Poor child," said Mrs. Randolph, closing the miniature as she spoke.
"Has she never remembered anything about herself since?"
"She hadn't a week ago," said Marjorie, wondering how her shaking lips
formed the words, "but perhaps she may some time. Oh, Mrs. Randolph,
suppose she should remember, and it should turn out that she had
relatives--brothers and sisters, and--and perhaps a mother, who had been
mourning her as dead! Can you think how her mother would feel? Can you
even imagine it, Mrs. Randolph?"
"I think such joy would be more than any mother could bear," said Mrs.
Randolph, softly. "But such strange, romantic things don't often happen
in this world, Marjorie dear. The poor child's mother is probably dead,
or she would have found her long ago. How did the accident happen?"
Marjorie gave a great gasp.
"We--we are not quite sure," she said. "Undine says the people at the
hospital told her a stone must have fallen on her head. She was found in
San Francisco under some ruins, after--after the earthquake."
"After the earthquake," repeated Mrs. Randolph in a strange, startled
tone, and she grew suddenly pale. "Oh, poor, poor child! At least my
little Barbara was spared those horrors. Why have you never told me
about this girl before, Marjorie?"
"Because Beverly said it made you sad to have any one speak of the
earthquake, and I couldn't have told Undine's story without mentioning
it. It was dreadful, of course, but she was saved. Think of it, Mrs.
Randolph, she was saved, and perhaps some time--" poor Marjorie's
over-strained nerves gave way, and she burst into tears.
Mrs. Randolph had grown very white; she was trembling, too, but she
laid a firm hand on the girl's shoulder.
"Marjorie," she cried sharply, "what does this mean? Why are you telling
me all this? Something has happened, I know it has--oh, Marjorie, for
God's sake tell me what it is! My little girl is dead; they brought her
home to me, though they would not let me see her dear face. Marjorie,
why do you cry so? You must tell me at once, do you hear? I say at
once."
"Oh, Mrs. Randolph, darling Mrs. Randolph, it isn't anything sad, indeed
it isn't," sobbed Marjorie, with her arms about her friend's neck. "It's
something beautiful; more beautiful and wonderful than you can ever
imagine. I can't say any more, but Beverly will be here very soon, and
he will tell you. Try to think of the very greatest joy that could
possibly come to any one, and perhaps you will begin to have an idea
what it is."
Marjorie paused, conscious of the fact that some one had entered the
room. In their excitement neither she nor Mrs. Randolph had noticed the
opening of the door, or the sound of an approaching footstep. But now as
she lifted her face from her friend's shoulder, Marjorie saw two figures
standing on the threshold; they were Dr. Randolph and Beverly. At the
same moment Mrs. Randolph also recognized them, and held out her arms to
her son.
"Beverly," she cried, "tell me what it is! You know, I see it in your
face. Oh, Beverly, my darling, it isn't--it can't be news of Barbara?"
"Yes, Mother, it is!" cried the boy, gathering her in his strong arms.
"Can you bear a great shock, Mother--a great joyful shock?--because if
you can, Uncle George and I have something to tell you."
Marjorie waited for no more; such scenes were not for other eyes to see
or other ears to hear. With a bound, she was out of the room, and flying
across the corridor. In her flight she darted by two other figures
without even seeing them; a trembling, white-faced girl clinging
nervously to an older woman, whose face was scarcely less white than her
own. She had but one thought: to reach her room before the burst of
hysterical excitement completely overpowered her. A frantic ring at the
Carletons' bell, and then the door was thrown open, and she was clinging
to some one--presumably Hortense--crying and laughing both together.
"Oh, Hortense, Hortense," she wailed, "I've told her, and they've come!
You don't think the shock will kill her, do you?"
But it was not Hortense who answered, or who held the hysterical child
in loving, motherly arms.
"Marjorie, my dear little Marjorie, don't tremble so! Everything will be
all right, my darling, I know it will, and here are Aunt Jessie and I
come all the way from Arizona to give you a big surprise."