"I remember you very well, Mrs. Ramsay. I hope you haven't forgotten
me. I've often wanted to thank you for your kindness," I said slowly,
while she as slowly recovered. "I think you'll be glad to know that I
am thoroughly well-cured. Shall I tell Mrs. Ramsay how, Bishop?"
I put it square up to him. And he met it like the little man he
is--perhaps, too, my bit of charity to the Cruelty children had pleased
him.
"I don't think it will be necessary, Miss Olden," he said gently. "I
can do that for you at some future time."
And I could have hugged him; but I didn't dare.
We had tea there in the Board rooms. Oh, Mag, remember how we used to
peep into those awful, imposing Board rooms! Remember how strange and
resentful you felt--like a poor little red-haired nigger up at the
block--when you were brought in there to be shown to the woman who'd
called to adopt you!
It was all so strange that I had to keep talking to keep from dreaming.
I was talking away to the matron and the Bishop about the play-room I'm
going to fit up out of that bare little place upstairs. Perhaps the
same child doesn't stay there very long, but there'll always be
children to fill it--more's the cruel pity!
Then the Bishop and I climbed up there to see it and plan about it.
But I couldn't really see it, Mag, nor the poor, white-faced, wise-eyed
little waifs that have succeeded us, for the tears in my eyes and the
ache at my heart and the queer trick the place has of being peopled
with you and me, and the boy with the gouged eye, and the cripple, and
the rest.
He put his gentle thin old arm about my shoulders for a moment when he
saw what was the matter with me. Oh, he understands, my Bishop! And
then we turned to go downstairs.
"Oh--I want--I want to do something for them," I cried. "I want to do
something that counts, that's got a heart in it, that knows! You knew,
didn't you, it was true--what I said downstairs? I was--I am a Cruelty
girl. Help me to help others like me."
"My dear," he said, very stately and sweet, "I'll be proud to be your
assistant. You've a kind, true heart and--"
And just at that minute, as I was preceding him down the narrow steps,
a girl in a red coat trimmed with chinchilla and in a red toque with
some of the same fur blocked our way as she was coming up.
We looked at each other. You've seen two peacocks spread their tails
and strut as they pass each other? Well, the peacock coming up wasn't
in it with the one going down. Her coat wasn't so fine, nor so heavy,
nor so newly, smartly cut. Her toque wasn't so big nor so saucy, and
the fur on it--not to mention that the descending peacock was a
brunette and ... well, Mag, I had my day. Miss Evelyn Kingdon paid me
back in that minute for all the envy I've spent on that pretty rig of
hers.
She didn't recognize me, of course, even though the two red coats were
so near, as she stopped to let me pass, that they kissed like sisters,
ere they parted. But, Mag, Nancy Olden never got haughty that there
wasn't a fall waiting for her. Back of Miss Kingdon stood Mrs.
Kingdon--still Mrs. Kingdon, thanks to Nance Olden--and behind her, at
the foot of the steps, was a frail little old-fashioned bundle of black
satin and old lace. I lost my breath when the Bishop hailed his wife.
"Maria," he said--some men say their wives' first names all the years
of their lives as they said them on their wedding-day--"I want you to
meet Miss Olden--Nance Olden, the comedian. She's the girl I wanted
for my daughter--you'll remember, it's more than a year ago now since I
began to talk about her?"
I held my breath while I waited for her answer. But her poor,
short-sighted eyes rested on my hot face without a sign.
"It's an old joke among us," she said pleasantly, "about the Bishop's
daughter."
We stood there and chatted, and the Bishop turned away to speak to Mrs.
Kingdon. Then I seized my chance.
"I've heard, Mrs. Van Wagenen," I said softly and oh, as nicely as I
could, "of your fondness for lace. We are going abroad in the spring,
my husband and I, to Malta, among other places. Can't I get you a
piece there as a souvenir of the Bishop's kindness to me?"
Her little lace-mittened, parchment-like hands clasped and unclasped
with an almost childish eagerness.
"Oh, thank you, thank you very much; but if you would give the same sum
to charity--"
"I will," I laughed. She couldn't guess how glad I was to do this
thing. "And I'll spend just as much on your lace and be so happy if
you'll accept it."
I promised Henrietta a box for to-night, Maggie, and one to Mrs.
Kingdon. The Dowager told me she'd love to come, though her husband is
out of town, unfortunately, she said.
"But you'll come with me, won't you, Bishop?" she said, turning to him.
"And you, Mrs. Van?"
The Bishop blushed. Was he thinking of Beryl, I wonder. But I didn't
hear his answer, for it was at that moment that I caught Fred's voice.
He had told me he was going to call for me. I think he fancied that
the old Cruelty would depress me--as dreams of it have, you know; and
he wanted to come and carry me away from it, just as at night, when
I've waked shivering and moaning, I've felt his dear arms lifting me
out of the black night-memory of it.
But it was anything but a doleful Nance he found and hurried down the
snowy steps out to a hansom and off to rehearsal. For the Bishop had
said to me, "God bless you, child," when he shook hands with both of us
at parting, and the very Cruelty seemed to smile a grim benediction, as
we drove off together, on Fred and