VIII.

This same afternoon, about two hours later, Claire was in New York. She

had crossed thither, spurred by an idea born of her desperation. It was

a forlorn hope; it was like the straw clutched by the sinking hand; and

yet it formed a comforting preventive against complete despair. She had

remembered her old friend at Mrs. Arcularius's school, the plump-cheeked

and yellow-haired Sophia Bergemann. She had determined to seek her out

and ask her aid in obtaining work. Years had elapsed since Claire and

Sophia had met; but if the buxom young creature had preserved even half

of her old amiable friendship, there was excellent chance of cordial

welcome and kindly assistance.

'I only hope that she still lives in Hoboken,' Claire thought, while

taking the journey across town. 'Suppose the family have left there.

Suppose I cannot find Sophia. Suppose that she is married and has gone

to live elsewhere--in Europe, perhaps. Suppose that she is dead.'

More than once, before she had reached the central part of the city,

Claire felt herself grow weak with dread. Night would soon approach. She

had money enough to get lodgment, but in her ignorance and her

loneliness how could she secure it? Her mother's face, clothed with the

old mocking smile, repeatedly rose before her fancy. She seemed to see

the hard, bitter mouth frame certain sentences. "Oh, you'll come back,"

it seemed to say. "You've got to. You can't go gallivanting round New

York after dark. I ain't afraid. Oh, you'll come back to Greenpoint,

_sure_!"

'I will never go back,' Claire said to her own thoughts, answering this

phantasmal sort of taunt. 'No, not if I walk the streets to-night and

many another night. Not if I have to beg for food. Not if I die of

hunger. I will never go back _there_! No, no, no!'

There was nothing theatrically fervid about this silent resolve. The

girl was quite capable of confronting any sharp ill rather than remeet

the woman who had so pitilessly outraged her most sacred instincts. She

knew well enough that her mother confidently counted upon her return.

She knew well enough that her mother would undergo wild alarm on finding

herself permanently deserted. Yet Claire, with a grim desire of

inflicting punishment for the insult flung at her beloved dead, silently

exulted in what she could not help but deem a just and rightful

vengeance. True, her own act may have dealt the vengeance; but did it

not really spring from that departed soul whose corpse had met the lash

of so undeserved an indignity? When Claire had reached the centre of the

city she suddenly determined to seek Mrs. Arcularius's establishment.

The school might either have changed its locality or else ceased to

exist. Still, she would apply at the old quarters. There she would

inquire for Sophia Bergemann. They might know nothing concerning the

girl. But if this resulted, she would still have all Hoboken left, in

which the dwelling-place of so prominent a resident--even though one of

past time--would most probably be known on inquiry. A throng of memories

beset her as she rang the bell of Mrs. Arcularius's abode. The name of

that august lady gleamed on a large silver-plated square, affixed to the

second door, beyond the marble-paved vestibule. A smartly-dressed maid

answered her summons. Claire stated in brief, civil terms what

information she desired to gain. The maid left her standing in the

well-known hall for several minutes, and at length returned with the

tidings, apparently fresh from the lips of Mrs. Arcularius herself, that

Miss Bergemann was then living at No. -- Fifth Avenue, only a slight

distance away.

Claire felt a thrill of relief as she thanked the maid and resought the

street. This intelligence seemed a most happy stroke of luck. It augured

well for the success of her sad little enterprise.

The Fifth Avenue dwelling proved to be a mansion of imposing dimensions.

It stood on a corner, and had a wide window at one side of its spacious

entrance, and two at the other. From either panel of its polished walnut

door jutted a griffon's head of bronze, holding a ring pendant from its

tense lips. Beyond the glossy plate-glass of the casements gleamed misty

folds of lace, and still further beyond these you caught a charming

glimpse of large-leaved tropic plants in rich-hued vases. Claire pulled

a bronze bell-handle that was wrought in the likeness of some

close-folded flower. A dull yet distinct peal ensued, having in its

sound a trim directness that suggested prompt and capable attendance

from interior quarters. While Claire waited for admission she cast her

look downward upon the middle street, and across at the line of opposite

residences, all marked by a calm uniformity of elegance. The sight was

very new to her after Greenpoint, but at the same time it stirred

certain sources of youthful recollection. Many carriages were passing.

One or two were shaped with fashionable oddity, having only a single

pair of huge wheels and a booted and cockaded flunkey, who sat in

cramped, oblique posture, with his back to the other occupants, a lady

and a gentleman, and who seemed forever taking a resigned plunge off the

vehicle, with stoically folded arms. Another was a heavy, sombre family

coach, with two men on the box, both clad in dark, dignified livery.

Still another was the so-called dog-cart, borne along by a team of

responsible silver-trapped bays, and having on its second seat a footman

graciously permitted, in this instance, to face the horses whose

lustrous flanks his own hands had doubtless groomed into their present

brilliance. The two parallel yet contrary streams of vehicles made an

incessant subdued clatter; numerous pedestrians were also passing to and

fro along either sidewalk; the weather had changed again from harsh to

clement; the strip of clear, blue sky above the massive housetops wore a

shining delicacy and airiness of tint; even Claire's new wound, that

still bled unseen, could not distract her from a buoyant congeniality

with the prosperous and festal tumult so amply manifest. She understood

then, and perhaps with a qualm of shame as well, that no grief could

quite repress, however transiently, her love for life, action, and

refined social intercourse. The old desire to win a noted place among

those of her own kind who were themselves notable, quickened within

her, too, as she gazed upon the bright bustle and the palatial

importance which were both so near at hand.

'Near,' she mused, 'and yet so far! Shall I ever do what _he_ bade me to

do on that night long ago? Shall I ever climb the hill? Shall I not grow

tired and sit down to rest? What chance have I _now_ of ever reaching

the top? Where is the hand to help me even ever so little? Will Sophia

Bergemann do it? Yes; if the ways of the world haven't changed her since

we met at school.'

A man-servant, in what is termed full-dress, soon opened the door, and

Claire asked if Miss Sophia Bergemann was at home. The man appeared to

be a very majestic person. Claire felt a good deal of secret awe in his

presence. He had a superb development of the chest, a sort of senatorial

nose, and two oblong tufts of sorrel whisker, growing with a mossy

density close to either ear.

But he was very civil, notwithstanding his grandeur. He told Claire, in

a rich voice that would have deepened her veneration if it had not been

blent with a valiant North-of-Ireland brogue, that Miss Bergemann was at

home but about to leave the house for a drive.

The hall in which this announcement was made glowed with sumptuous yet

tasteful decorations. A dark curve of heavy-balustered staircase, which

four or five persons might have ascended abreast, met the eye only a

short space away. From the lofty ceiling depended a costly lamp of

illumined glass. Soft, thick tapestries of Turkish design drooped from

several near doorways. A fleet remembrance of the old school-room

sarcasms about the Bergemanns' vulgar Hoboken home flashed through

Claire's mind.

"Will you tell Miss Sophia, please," she said, in as firm and calm a

tone as she could manage, "that Miss Twining, whom she knew some years

ago, would like to speak with her?"

The butler was about to reply, when a loud feminine voice suddenly

pealed from upper regions. In reality it was the voice of a lady who had

already descended several steps of the broad, winding staircase; but the

lady was still in obscurity, and therefore the liberal size of the house

caused her tones to sound as if they had come from a still greater

distance. "Michael," shrilled the voice, "I see the carriage isn't here

yet. It's nearly a quarter of an hour behind time. Thomas has done this

twice before in one week. Now, you just send Robert straight round to

the stable, and let him say that we're very angry about it, and that Ma

won't put up with such behavior if it ever happens again!"

The butler had left Claire before the end of the final belligerent

sentence, and had moved, with a certain military briskness, toward the

first wide step of the staircase.

"Yes, Miss Sophia," he said, employing his fine sonorous voice so that

it somehow had the effect of not being unduly raised, though still

strongly audible. The next moment he turned toward Claire, with a mien

in which his natural official gravity gave sign of being cruelly

fluttered.

"Miss Sophia is coming downstairs, Miss," he said.

Claire had a swift feeling of gratitude for that single word "Miss." She

knew that she was dingily clothed; she had fancied that all her claims

to the nicer grades of gentility lived solely within her mental wish and

hope; but she failed to perceive that her face was filled with those

tender and sweet charms which we term patrician, and that her least

gesture carried with it a grace which previous conditions of culture

alone have the art to bestow. It was indeed true, as Michael had said,

that Miss Sophia was coming downstairs. Claire soon heard a decisive

rustle of robes, and presently a descendent shape dawned upon her view,

arrayed in very modish costume.

But the instant that Claire caught sight of Sophia she recognized the

plump, rubicund face, grown only a trifle more womanly beneath its

low-arranged floss of yellow hair. She went forward to meet her old

friend. Just as Sophia left the last step of the staircase, Claire had

so managed that they stood very near to each other.

She did not put forth a hand. Her pale, beautiful face had grown paler,

through fear of some possibly haughty reception. But she spoke the

moment that Sophia's round blue eyes had fairly met her own.

"I hope you know me," she said. "I hope you have not forgotten me."

A blank, dismayed look possessed Sophia for a few seconds, and then she

put forth two hands which were sheathed half-way up to the elbow in

dull-brown gloves, seizing both of Claire's hands the next instant.

"Forgotten you!" she cried. "Why, you're Claire Twining! Of course you

are! And as pretty as a picture, just as you always were! Why, you dear

old thing! Give me a kiss!"

Claire felt the lips of the speaker forcibly touch each of her cheeks.

Sophia still held her hands. The welcome had been too abruptly cordial.

A mist slipped before her sight and clouded her brain. She staggered

backward....

Perhaps she would have fallen, if the magnificent Michael had not been

near enough to place a muscular arm between herself and the floor. But

she rallied almost at once. And while clearness was returning to her

mind, she heard Sophia say, in imperious yet hearty tones,--

"Michael, take her into the reception-room! Now, don't look so stupid!

Do as I say!"

Claire's attack, though more than partly past, still left her weak. She

allowed herself to be led, and indeed half supported, by Michael. A

little later she was seated on a big, yielding lounge, with the sense of

a big, yielding pillow at her back. And presently, close beside her, she

saw the ruddy, broad-blown face of Sophia, surmounted by a Parisian

bonnet of the most deft and dainty millinery.

"Sophia," she said, breaking into a tremulous, pathetic little laugh,

"please don't--_please_ don't think I've lost my senses! But it--it was

so good of you to--remember me, after we hadn't met for such a long

time, that--that I"--

Here Claire burst into an actual tempest of tears and sobs, and

immediately afterward felt Sophia's hands again clasp both her own.

"Michael!" cried her new hostess at the same moment, in tones of

imperative command, "for Heaven's sake, don't stand staring there, but

_do_ leave the room!"

"Yes, Miss," came the nicely decorous reply. Faultless servant as he

was, it must still be set to the credit of Michael that he closed a

sliding door of solid rosewood, which worked on easy grooves between the

double _portiere_ of the apartment, just after crossing its threshold.

His act was wholly unnecessary, considering the nature of the command

his young mistress had given; and when we note the obstructing force of

the door itself, it implies a sublime abstinence from the fascinations

of eavesdropping.

"Now, don't cry so!" exclaimed Sophia, with great sympathy and a strong

suspicion of active emotion as well. "I suppose something dreadful has

happened to you, dear old Claire. What is it? Just tell me, and I'll see

what I can do. You're not dressed as if you were very well off. Is it

poverty? Oh, pshaw! I'll soon fix things all right if you want help that

way. I'll"--

Here Sophia abruptly paused, and withdrew her hands. She stood facing

Claire, who still struggled to master the sobs that shook her. Sophia

seemed sternly troubled: her full cheeks had reddened; this was her one

invariable way of showing agitation; she never turned pale, like other

people. "Claire!" she broke forth, in solemn undertone. "I do hope it

isn't _one thing_! I do hope you haven't been ... been _going wrong_!

You know what I mean. I wouldn't mind anything but that, and that I

couldn't forgive--or even excuse!"

Claire sprang to her feet as the last word passed Sophia's lips. Wrath

had calmed her, and with a wondrous speed. The tears were still

glittering on her cheeks, however, as she spoke, with eyes that flashed

and a lip that curled.

"Sophia!" she said; "how dare you insult me like this!"

The distressed frown on Sophia's face instantly vanished. "Oh, Claire,"

she cried, "I'm so glad it _isn't_ true! Don't be angry. You see, my

dear, we hadn't met for so long, and you looked as if--as if something

horrible had happened, and it's such a funny, topsy-turvy world. So many

queer things do happen in it. _Don't_ be angry, please!"

"I am angry," said Claire. In her shabby dress she gave,

notwithstanding, a noble portrayal of disdain. She had taken several

steps toward the door, though Sophia, having caught her arm, endeavored,

with a mien contrite and even supplicating, to detain her within the

chamber. "Why should I not be angry?" Claire went on, her voice dry and

bitter. "Allow that I do look as if I were miserable. Is misery another

name for sin?... No, Sophia, let me go, please.... Perhaps you may

learn, some day, as I've learned already, that the unhappy people in

life are not always the bad ones!"

But Sophia, whose impulsive and explosive nature had not altered very

markedly since we last heard of her childish escapades, now replied by a

most excited outburst of appeal. Her exuberant figure, which no

dexterity of dressmaking and no splendor of combined satins and velvets

could turn less unwieldy and cumbrous, bowed and swayed till you almost

heard the seams of its rich garb crack their stitches under the fleshly

disturbance to which she subjected them.

"Claire! Claire!" she ejaculated; "I _have_ insulted you.... But you'll

forgive me--I know you will. I've never forgotten you. You stood up

against that horrid Ada Gerrard and her set so finely, years ago! You

were good then--yes, just as good as gold,--and I'm sure you're just

exactly as good still. Now, Claire, don't look that way! I was talking

to Ma about you only a few days since. Pa's dead, you know--but I

suppose you don't. Yes, I said to Ma that I'd give anything to find out

what had become of you. Ma and I are dreadfully rich--I mean well off.

Poor Pa left ever so much money. He's been dead nearly three years.

There's nobody but Ma and I left. I hate Hoboken. I made her buy this

house. Now, Claire, just stop! You shan't go. You're going to tell me

all about your troubles. Yes, you shall! I'll be your friend. There, let

me kiss you.... Do, Claire!... You know I was always awfully fond of

you. I never knew any girl I was half so fond of as you. I've asked your

pardon. You were always a lady. I remember about that dreadful dress you

came to school in, first. But that didn't matter. You were a lady born,

and you showed it afterward. Every girl thought so, too. Even those

hateful snobs had to own it--I'm sure they did. I see some of them quite

often. Ada Gerrard's a great swell, as they say, now. She gives me a

little nod when I meet her, driving in the Park or on the Avenue. But

you're twice the lady she is. Yes, Claire, I mean it. Kiss me, now,

won't you? Kiss me, and be friends!"

Claire had succumbed several minutes before this eager tirade was ended.

Her anger had fled. She let Sophia put both arms about her. She returned

Sophia's kiss. Then she leaned her head upon the shoulder of her

companion, and gave way to another access of tears. But they were quiet

tears, this time. The hysteric impulse had wholly passed. A little later

she told Sophia, with as much placid directness as she could manage,

every important detail of the hard, dreary life lived since they two had

last met.

While she thus spoke, the extraordinary charm of her manner and the

distinct loveliness of her delicate yet notable beauty more than once

thrilled her listener. Sophia's old worship, if the term be not too

strong, returned in full force. She had sworn by Claire, as the phrase

goes, in earlier days. She was prepared to swear by her still. The story

of Mr. Twining's death and the disloyal deportment of his wife roused

her vehement contempt. By the time that Claire had finished her gloomy

recital, the two girls were seated close together. Sophia's large fat

hand, in its fashionable glove, was fervidly clasping Claire's.

"You did perfectly right!" Sophia at length exclaimed, after the pause

had come, and while her visitor sat with drooped head and pale,

compressed lips. "Your poor father! To bury him that way! It was

frightful! And you told her you'd do anything on earth for her if she

only wouldn't! And I know how you loved your father. Don't you recollect

telling me about him, one recess, when I gave you half my

sardine-sandwich? You said he was a gentleman by birth, and had come of

a fine family in England. That's where you get your swell looks from,

Claire. Yes, you _are_ a swell, even though you've got on a frock that

didn't cost, altogether, as much as one yard of mine.... Why, just look

at me! I'm awkward and clumsy, exactly as I was at Mrs. Arcularius's.

I'll never be any different. And yet I spend loads and loads of money on

my things. I do, really! But gracious goodness! there _you_ sit, with

your sweet, pure face, shaped like a heart, and your hair that's got the

same bright sparkle through its brown that it used to have, and those

long eyelashes over those black-blue kind of eyes, and that cunning

little dimple in your chin, and those long, slender, ladylike hands"--

Here Claire stopped her, with a sad smile and a shake of the head. She

spread open one hand, holding it up for scrutiny at the same moment.

"Don't talk of my hands, Sophia," she said. "They've been doing hard

work since you saw them last."

Sophia gazed down at the inner portion of her friend's hand, for a

moment, and then suddenly exclaimed,--

"Work! Why, they're not hard a bit. Oh, Claire, you've worn gloves all

the time you worked. Come, own up, now!"

Claire smiled in a furtive way. But she spoke with simple frankness the

next instant. "Well, yes, Sophia," she said, "I _have_ worn gloves as

often as I could. I wanted to save my hands. Some of the girls at Mrs.

Arcularius's used to call them pretty. I wanted them to stay pretty--if

I could manage it. I don't mind telling you so. But I thought they must

have lost every trace of nice looks by this time."

Sophia bent over the hand that she still held, and whose palm was turned

upward to the light, so that all its inner details, from wrist to

finger-tips, could not possibly escape notice.

"Why, there's a pink flush all round the edge, inside there," commented

Sophia. "It's funny, Claire. I never saw it in any other girl's hand

before. It's just like the rose-color at the edge of a shell. Upon my

word it is! I don't care a straw what work you've been doing; you've got

hands like--well, I was going to say like a queen. But I don't doubt a

good many queens have awful hands, so I'll say like a lady.... There,

kiss me again.... Here's Ma. Don't mind Ma. She'll be nice. She always

_is_ nice when I want her to be. Isn't that so, Ma?"

A lady had just entered the small, brilliantly-appointed room in which

Claire and Sophia had thus far held their rather noteworthy converse.

The lady was Mrs. Bergemann.

She was exceedingly stout; both in visage and form she looked like a

matured and intensified Sophia. As far as features went, she wonderfully

resembled her daughter. Every undue trait of plumpness in Sophia's

countenance was reproduced by Mrs. Bergemann with a sort of facial

compound interest. Flesh seemed to have besieged her, like a comic

malady. Her good-natured eyes sparkled between two creases of it; her

loose, full chin revealed more than one fold of it. She was by no means

attired like a widow of recent bereavement. She wore a bonnet in which

there was no violence of coloring; it was purple and brown, but at the

same time so severely _a la mode_ that if any symbol lurked behind its

decorative fantasies this must have signified the soothing influences of

resignation and consolation.

She had heard her daughter's last words. She was devoted to Sophia; it

was an allegiance wed with pride. She had been a poor German girl, years

ago, and had drifted, through the chance of matrimony, into her present

opulent place. She was by nature meek and conciliatory; all Sophia's

temper and temerity had come from her father, who had combined large

superficial good-humor with a notorious intolerance of the least fancied

wrong. Sophia's last words had embarrassed her. She had no idea who

Claire was, but the evident cordiality of her daughter's deportment

produced the effect of a gentle mandate.

"I shan't go driving, Ma!" Sophia exclaimed, after she had made Claire

and her mother acquainted. "I'll stay at home and talk of old times with

Claire Twining. Poor Claire's in trouble, Ma. I won't tell you about it

yet. You go off in the carriage--that is, if it ever comes; but I'm

afraid we'll have to discharge Thomas; he's always behind time."

"The carriage is here, Sophia," said Mrs. Bergemann. She spoke without

the slightest German accent; this had perished long ago. She was looking

at Claire with the manner of one who has been deeply attracted. "I've

often heard you mention Miss Twining," she went on. "You was talking of

her only the other day, wasn't you, Sophia?"

"Yes," said Sophia, rising. She went to her mother, and spoke a few low

words, which Claire quite failed to hear. The prompt result of this

intercourse was Mrs. Bergemann's exit from the room. Sophia followed her

to the door, with one hand laid upon her shoulder.

"All right, Ma," she said, pausing a moment on the threshold. "You go

and take your drive. I'll stay and chat with Claire."

A little while afterward Sophia had reseated herself at Claire's side.

"Ma likes you," she at once began, in her voluble, oddly frank way. "She

told me she did. She's very funny about liking and disliking people. She

takes fancies--or she doesn't. Ma isn't a swell. She's what they call

vulgar. But she's ever so nice. She never had much education, but she

has a large, warm heart. I wouldn't have her one bit different from what

she is. I wouldn't give Ma for Queen Victoria. She and I are the

dearest friends in the world. I know you'll like her, Claire. She likes

you, as I said. And Claire, look here, now; I want to say something. It

may surprise you. I hope, though, that it will please you, too. You're

going to stay here in this house. You're going to live here as my

friend. Yes, you are. You were always as smart as a steel trap. We'll

read together, every morning. Yes, we will. You know what a perfect fool

I used to be at Mrs. Arcularius's. Well, I'm the same fool still. But

_you_ know a lot; you always did. And you shall help me to be less of an

ignoramus than I am. We've got a library upstairs. Oh, there are a crowd

of books. I got Mr. Thurston to buy them for me. He's a gentleman friend

of ours, and he knows a tremendous amount. He just filled all the

book-shelves for us. I'm sure he bought the right kind of books, too; he

knows pretty much everything in that line. Now, Claire, if you'll do as

I say, we'll get along splendidly together. And as for ... well, as for

salary, you know, I'll"--

Here Claire rose, placing a hand on Sophia's arm. "No," she said, "I

couldn't accept such a place as that. I'm not able to fill it. I have

been living a life of hard work for three or four years past. I've

scarcely looked into a book, Sophia, in all that time. I came here to

ask you if you would get me work. I can sew very well; I was always

clever with my needle. If you will give me something of that sort to do,

I will gladly and thankfully remain. But otherwise, I can't."