The Girl from Arizona Part 31

"But the letter said I was dead," persisted Undine, wildly, and she fixed her big, terrified eyes on Mrs. Graham's astonished face. "It said Barbara Randolph was dead, and her mother put flowers on her grave."

Mrs. Graham was beginning to be seriously alarmed for the girl's reason, but she made an effort to appear calm.

"My dear child," she said, soothingly, "you don't know what you are saying. Barbara Randolph is the daughter of the lady with whom Marjorie has been staying; she died long ago; she had nothing to do with you."

"But she didn't die, I know she didn't!" cried Undine, sitting up, despite all Mrs. Graham's efforts to keep her quiet. "I knew it when I read the letter. For one minute I remembered something horrible. I don't remember it any more now, but I was so frightened, and--oh, Mrs. Graham, I was so terribly frightened!" And the poor child burst into a fit of wild, hysterical sobbing, and clung pa.s.sionately to her kind friend's neck.

Miss Jessie pushed her wheeled-chair out onto the porch, and strained her eyes in the gathering dusk, in the vain hope of seeing some approaching figure. Fortunately the January evening was warm, but even if it had been cold she would scarcely have been aware of the fact. She was very anxious, and this long suspense of waiting was hard to bear.

It was more than two hours since Undine had regained consciousness, and in all that time the girl had scarcely uttered an intelligible word. She had pa.s.sed from one hysterical fit into another, and Mrs. Graham and Juanita were at their wits' end. For almost the first time in twelve years Miss Jessie realized the awful loneliness of their lives. "Donald must surely be back soon," she told herself, trying to be patient, "and Jim will be here with the mail before long. Oh, that poor child--what can it all mean?"

There was a slight sound behind her, and Mrs. Graham, too, stepped out on the porch. She was looking pale and distressed.

"How is she now?" Miss Jessie whispered, anxiously.

"I think she has fallen into a doze; she must be quite exhausted, poor child. She has had a terrible shock of some kind."

"Do you think it can have been caused by anything in Marjorie's letter?

She must have been reading it when she fainted."

"I don't know what to think," said Mrs. Graham, clasping her hands nervously. "She spoke of that Randolph girl--the little girl who was killed in the earthquake, you know. Oh, Jessie, you don't suppose--"

Mrs. Graham did not finish her sentence, but the two women looked at each other in the dusk, and both their faces were pale and startled.

"I must go back," said Mrs. Graham in a hurried whisper; "I dare not leave her long. When she wakes she may remember; I think her memory is coming back. I am afraid you will take cold out here."

"I am not cold, but I will come in soon. I am waiting for Donald and Jim. I must warn them not to speak loud; it might startle her again."

Mrs. Graham made no further objection, but went back into the house and Miss Jessie folded her hands and waited.

Five, ten minutes pa.s.sed, and then came the sound of distant hoofs. With a sigh of intense relief, Miss Jessie sent the wheeled-chair gliding smoothly off the porch, and across the lawn. The hoof-beats drew nearer, and now she heard voices. Was it her brother or Jim, and who were the others, for she distinctly heard more than one voice?

"Is it you, Donald?" she called, and in the still, clear air, her voice was audible an eighth of a mile away.

"No, Miss, it ain't Mr. Graham, it's me," came the answer in Jim's well-known voice. "I've got some folks with me."

Miss Jessie waited in silence while the hoofs and voices drew nearer. It was no uncommon thing for strangers to stop at the ranch, where they were always sure of a hospitable reception and a night's lodging. She was glad Jim was not alone. Perhaps the visitors, whoever they were, might be able to help, but how she could not imagine. It was nearly dark, and the first few stars were beginning to glimmer in the evening sky.

The horses were very near now, and she could distinguish three figures, one was Jim Hathaway, the other two were strangers.

"I beg your pardon, Madame." It was the elder of the two strangers who spoke; he had sprung from his horse, and taken off his hat. Even in the dim light Miss Jessie could see that he was a gentleman. His companion she noticed was much younger, scarcely more than a boy indeed, and he, too, was regarding her with eager, questioning eyes.

"I must introduce myself," the gentleman went on, courteously. "I think you may have heard Marjorie speak of me. I am Dr. Randolph, and this is my nephew Beverly."

Miss Jessie gave a little joyful cry, and held out both hands.

"Is it about Undine?" she whispered breathlessly. "Have you come for her, and is it really true that the child is your niece?"

It was some time before Undine awoke from the heavy sleep of exhaustion into which she had fallen. She opened her eyes, gazed about her vaguely, and murmured, "Mother! I want Mother."

"Yes, dear, I know," said Mrs. Graham, softly kissing the girl's hot forehead. "Your mother isn't here, but she is safe and well, and you shall go to her very soon."

Undine smiled faintly, and then a troubled look came into her face.

"I forgot her," she said, dreamily, "I forgot my mother for a long time, but I remember now, and I want her--oh, I want her." And she stretched out her arms in helpless longing.

Then Mrs. Graham moved aside, and some one else bent over her.

"Babs," said a low, tremulous voice, "Babs darling, don't you know me?

It's Beverly."

With a great cry of joy Undine started up, and in another second she was clinging convulsively round her brother's neck.

"Beverly," she sobbed, "oh, Beverly, I remember; I remember everything.

It's all come back; poor Aunt Helen, that dreadful, dreadful time! You thought I was dead, and you and Mother put flowers on my grave; but I wasn't dead, I had only forgotten. Hold me, Beverly, hold me tight; I'm so afraid I'm going to forget again."

CHAPTER XXII

UNDINE TELLS HER STORY

BUT Undine did not forget again, although it was some time before she was able to give any coherent account of what she could remember.

Indeed, she was in such a feverish, hysterical condition, that Dr.

Randolph would not allow any attempt at questioning her that night.

"She has had a terrible shock, poor child," he said to Mrs. Graham. "The reading of that letter must have brought everything back with a rush and the knowledge that she had been mourned as dead for nearly three years was almost more than she could bear. But she is young and strong, and a good night's sleep will do wonders for her. When I think of what we owe to you and your--" The doctor's voice broke suddenly, and he impulsively held out his hand.

"I think our obligations are mutual," said Mrs. Graham, smiling, though there were tears in her eyes. "According to Marjorie's last letter, you and Mrs. Randolph have been making our little girl very happy, while your niece has been a great comfort to us. It is all so strange and wonderful that I can scarcely realize yet that it isn't a dream."

It was pitiful to see Undine cling to her brother; she could not bear to have him out of her sight for a moment, and Beverly himself, almost stunned by the great shock of the discovery that Undine and Barbara were really one and the same, coming at the end of four days of almost unendurable suspense, could do little beyond hovering over his sister, in joy and thankfulness too deep for words.

"Does Mother know, Beverly?" Undine whispered, late that evening, when the two were alone together.

"No, Babs, she doesn't know yet, but we are going to take you home just as soon as we can. We couldn't let Mother even suspect until we were sure ourselves. Marjorie was certain she recognized your photograph, but Uncle George and I couldn't believe it was true; it seemed so impossible."

"Poor, poor Mother," sighed Undine; "oh, Beverly, how unhappy she must have been!"

"Don't talk about it, Babs; you know Uncle George doesn't want you to talk. You must try to go to sleep, so as to be able to start for home as soon as possible."

"I'm afraid to go to sleep," protested Undine, feverishly. "Perhaps when I wake I shall have forgotten everything again. Oh, Beverly, don't let me forget again."

"Of course we won't let you," said Beverly, putting a strong arm around her, protectingly. "You are quite safe now, you know, Babs darling, Uncle George and I are here, and we're going to take you home to Mother."