“Left hand, please!”
Obediently, Mrs. Barron took her left hand out of the bowl of warm
water, and laid it on the towel, carefully, as if it might melt. And the
manicurist bent over it with her nice air of earnest attention.
All this was agreeable to Mrs. Barron. She was rather proud of her
hands; she was altogether comfortable and tranquil; she had a pleasant,
restful day before her.
In the afternoon she and her daughter were going to look at fur coats,
which was really better than the actual buying; and, in the evening,
they were all going to a play. The sun was shining, too, and the formal
sitting room of her hotel suite was cheerful and warm, and filled with
the perfume of the roses that stood all about.
“It’s good to be home again,” she remarked. “At my time of life
traveling is not--” The telephone bell rang. “Answer that, my dear. It’s
dangerous to touch a telephone with damp hands--Oh! A gentleman to see
Miss Barron? What a strange time to call--ten o’clock in the morning!
Ask his name, my dear. He was on the Farragut with us? But how very
strange! Why doesn’t he give his name? But ask him to come up.”
She dried her hands and arose, majestic even in her frivolous negligee.
“Very strange!” she murmured.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” she said.
The door opened--and it was Mr. Ross! She took a step forward, with a
welcoming smile; then she stopped short.
“Mr. Ross!” she cried. “But--Mr. Ross!”
He did not fail to notice the change in her tone, the vanishing of her
smile. It did not surprise him. He stood in the doorway, hat in one
hand, the little girl clinging to the other, and he felt that, to her
piercing glance, he was a sorry enough figure. He felt shabby, as if he
had been long battered by wind and rain; he felt that somehow the
emptiness of his pockets was obvious to any one.
“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “I’m afraid I’ve disturbed you. I thought
perhaps I could see Miss Barron, just for a moment.”
“Come in!” said Mrs. Barron, and, turning to the manicurist, “Later, my
dear!” she said.
Ross came in, and the manicurist, gathering her things together on her
tray, made haste to escape. She went out, closing the door behind her.
“Mr. Ross!” said Mrs. Barron, in the same tone of stern wonder.
“I’m sorry,” he said, again. “I’m afraid I’ve dis--”
“But, my dear boy, what has happened?” she cried.
He was absolutely astounded by her voice, by the kindly anxiety in her
face.
“I just thought--” he began.
“Sit down!” said she. “Here! On the sofa. You _do_ look so tired!”
“I--I am,” he admitted.
“And such a dear little girl!” said Mrs. Barron. “Such a dear little
mite.”
She had sat down on the sofa beside the child, and was stroking her fair
mane, while her eyes were fixed upon Ross with genuine solicitude. She
looked so kind, so honest, so sensible--he marveled that he had ever
thought her formidable.
“You wanted to see Phyllis?” she went on. “She’s out, just now; but you
must wait.”
“By George!” cried Ross.
For he had an inspiration. With all his stubborn soul he had been
dreading to meet Phyllis in his present condition. He was penniless,
and, what was worse, he could not rid himself of an unreasonable
conviction of guilt. And now that he found Mrs. Barron so kind--
“Mrs. Barron!” he said. “It’s really you I ought to speak to. It’s about
this child. She’s a--sort of cousin of mine, and she’s”--he paused a
moment--“alone.”
Mrs. Barron was looking down at the child, very thoughtfully.
“I don’t know any one in this country,” he went on, “so I thought if
you’d advise me. I want to find a home for her. A--a real home, you
know, with people who’ll--be fond of her. Just for a few months; later
on I’ll take her myself. But, just now--” His dark face flushed.
“I’m a bit hard up just now,” he said; “but I’ll find a job right away,
and I’ll be able to pay for her board and so on.”
Mrs. Barron continued to look thoughtful, and it occurred to him that
his request must seem odd to her--very odd. The flush on his face
deepened.
“I’m sorry,” he said, coldly; “but there are a good many things I can’t
explain--”
“Yes, you can!” Mrs. Barron declared, in her old manner. “And that’s
just what you’re going to do. As soon as I set eyes on you, on board
that ship, I knew what you were. And I am _never_ deceived about
character. Never, Mr. Ross! I knew at once that you were to be trusted.
I said to Phyllis: ‘That young man has force of character!’ I knew it.
Now you’ve gone and got yourself into trouble of some sort, and you’ve
come to me--very properly--and you’re going to tell me the whole thing.”
“I can’t!” Ross protested.
“Oh, yes, you can! Here you come and tell me you haven’t a penny, and
don’t know a soul in this country, and here’s this poor little child
who’s been foisted upon you--Don’t look surprised! I know it very well!
She’s been foisted upon you by selfish, heartless, unscrupulous people,
and you can’t deny it! Now, tell me what’s happened.”
He did. And what is more, he was glad to tell her.
There were a good many details that he left out, and he mentioned no
names at all, but the main facts of his amazing story he gave to her.
Especially was he emphatic in pointing out that he had now no name and
no money, and he thought that would be enough for her.
But when he carefully pointed this out, she said:
“Nonsense! You’ve got your own name, and you can go right on using it.
As for money, you’re never going to let that horrible, wicked woman rob
you like that--”
“Look here, Mrs. Barron!” said Ross. “I am. I give you my word, I’ll
never reopen that case again. It’s finished. I’m going to make a fresh
start in the world and forget all about it.”
“I shan’t argue with you now,” said Mrs. Barron, firmly. “You’re too
tired. And if you want a position--for awhile--Mr. Barron will find you
one. The little girl will stay here with us, of course. Now, take off
your coat and make yourself comfortable until lunch time.”
“No!” said Ross. “No! I--don’t you see for yourself? I don’t want to
see--_anybody_.”
“Mr. Ross!” said Mrs. Barron. “I’m not young any longer. I’ve lived a
good many years in the world, and I’ve learned a few things. And one of
them is--that character is the one thing that counts. Not money, Mr.
Ross; not intellect, or appearance, or manners; but character. What
you’ve done is very, very foolish, but--” She leaned across the child,
and laid her hand on his shoulder. “But it was very splendid, my dear
boy.”
Ross grew redder than ever.
“Just the same, I’d rather go,” he muttered, obstinately.
“Here’s Phyllis now!” cried Mrs. Barron, in triumph.
So he had to get up and face her--the girl he had run away from when he
had had so much to offer her. He had to face her, empty-handed, now;
heartsick and weary after his bitter adventure.
And she seemed to him so wonderful, with that dear friendly smile.
“Mr. Ross!” she said.
She held out her hand, and he had to take it. He had to look at her--and
then he could not stop. They forgot, for a moment; they stood there,
hands clasped, looking at each other.
“Didn’t I _know_ he’d come!” cried Mrs. Barron.