"A STUDY"
A TALL, pale girl with delicate features and great brown eyes and a
wealth of gold-brown hair.
"A study in black and white," was the phrase that floated through Ruth's
mind as she looked at her. The girl was in deep mourning unrelieved even
by a touch of white, and her face was intensely pale. Yet there was
something about her, a nameless something, that claimed instant
interest, and Mrs. Burnham, who, ever since she had heard of the girl's
existence, had been struggling with an unreasonable desire to hate her,
felt instantly drawn toward her. She felt rather than realized that,
whatever might have been Irene's appearance in girlhood, the two had
nothing in common now, for her eyes.
"I have heard your name," the pale girl said, much as she might have
addressed a book agent, "but I did not know that you were coming to New
York."
"My dear," broke in Madame Sternheim, reproof in her tone, "I am sure it
is very kind in Mrs.--yes, Mrs. Burnham to take all this trouble for
your sake. She tells me that she is not related to you in any way, and
it is certainly quite unusual for strangers to be so kind."
"It is very kind," the girl said coldly, and stood irresolute apparently
as to what she should do or say next; while Ruth, sorry for her and for
herself and unreasonably annoyed with Madame Sternheim, was at a loss
how to proceed.
The Madame came to her aid, addressing the young girl.
"Do be seated, my dear, and make yourself at least look comfortable."
There was a strong emphasis laid upon the word "look" and the reproof in
the tone was still marked, as she continued:--
"Mrs. Burnham will naturally want to have a talk with you, and learn
what little you may be able to explain to her about this sad matter,
although I am too fully aware that it will be very unsatisfactory." Then
she turned to Ruth.
"With your permission, dear madam, I will retire and leave my charge in
your care for the present. I assure you it is a great relief to me to
find that there is some one willing to share with me this heavy
responsibility."
The girl turned at this, and with slow, languid steps preceded the
Madame to the door, which she held open for her to pass, and bowed
respectfully as she did so. Then, waiting until a turn in the hall hid
the lady from sight she carefully closed the door.
Ruth, meantime, was watching her with a half-terrified fascination. She
was so calm, so self-possessed, so utterly without feeling of any sort,
apparently. What was to be said to her? and what good could come in any
way from that which now began to look like interference? She was not in
the least prepared for the sudden change which the closing of that door
seemed to make.
The girl turned with an impetuous movement and seemed to fly, rather
than walk, over the space between them, and, flinging herself in a
crushed little heap in front of her guest, hid her face on Mrs.
Burnham's lap and burst into a passion of weeping.
"Poor little girl!" Ruth said softly, and laid her hand tenderly on the
bowed head. There seemed no other word that could be spoken until the
storm of weeping had in a degree subsided.
"Oh, do forgive me!" the child said, after a minute, but without raising
her head. "I did not mean to cry, I meant to control myself; I thought I
could, through it all, but I am so wretched! and she--she freezes me!
she wants me to be resigned, and to remember how much better off I am
than some other girls who have no one to look after them, and it doesn't
help me one bit. I am so glad that you have come! You are Aunt Mamie's
friend, so you can't be like Madame Sternheim; and you won't tell me
that Aunt Mamie isn't related to me in the most distant degree and in
the nature of things cannot be, will you? I can see that you are not
like the Madame the least bit in the world, and I am glad, _glad_! Oh! I
am a very wicked girl! I ought not to have said that; she is good, she
is _very_ good; and she is patient with my faults and follies; and
yet--there are times when I almost hate her! Oh, dear! what will you
think of me? I don't act like this very often; I don't cry often--I
don't cry at all! but now I must, or I shall die!"
Then followed another outburst of passionate weeping.
"Cry as much as you want to, dear child," Ruth said. "It is only
natural, and will do you good."
All the time her hand was moving over the tumbled masses of hair, making
quiet, soothing passes.
After a little the girl sat up and brushed away the tears. "I can't
think what made me," she said. "Only you reminded me of Aunt
Mamie, and then--it all came back. I don't know what I am to do;
it seems to me that I cannot live without her, but I have got to;
and without--everybody. It does seem sometimes as though there was never
another girl in the world so utterly alone; but Madame Sternheim says
there are, hundreds of them, even in this city! I am so sorry for them
all! I wish they could die and go to heaven. I wish I could, with papa.
But Madame Sternheim says--" she stopped abruptly and struggled for
self-control, and spoke almost fiercely.
"I won't tell you what she says about my father, nor think about it. It
isn't true, and if it were, she--"
Ruth felt a curious feeling of indignation rising against Mamie Parker.
How could she have deserted this child? so soon, at least, after her
bereavement? Surely she needed her more than the brother did, who had
been alone for years! Then came a great gust of shame and shook her
heart. Why should Mamie Parker, a stranger, be expected to show
compassion for this lonely girl when her own family, her own mother--But
that would not bear thinking about.
"Poor little girl!" she said again, with infinite tenderness. "Will you
take me for a friend? I will do the best I can to be a true one."
"Oh, thank you," the child said impulsively. "I am so glad, _so glad_
for you! and only last night I thought I could never be glad about
anything again! Aunt Mamie had to go, of course, at the time appointed.
It isn't like other journeys, you know; they have to sail when they are
told; missionaries do, I mean. That is,--oh, you understand. But Aunt
Mamie felt very badly about leaving me; and she said she thought you
would love me; but of course I couldn't see why you should. It isn't
that I am not cared for, Mrs. Burnham. I have been with Madame Sternheim
for six years and I am sure that I have every care and attention that a
girl possibly could; she has always made that plain to me; but--She did
not like papa, Mrs. Burnham. She never did; and she--almost spoke
against him, even to me! Could a girl ever care very much for one who
talked and felt as she did about the dearest, kindest, most loving papa
that ever lived? oh!"
She clenched her hands, and the tears threatened to choke her; but she
put them back with a strong will, and even faintly smiled.
"I shall not cry again," she said. "Madame thinks it is wicked. Mrs.
Burnham, I wish you could have known my papa. He was--I mean he was
not--oh, I don't know how to say it; and I am not sure that I want to
say it, ever. He was good to me always; a girl like me couldn't have had
a better father; and I don't know how to live in this world without him.
It kills me to have to stay all the time among people who say always;
'Your poor father!' and shake their heads and look as though they could
say volumes of ugly things about him if they chose. They shall not! I
will not have people talking about my father! the dearest, the best! a
great deal better than the self-righteous creatures made of icicles that
they admire!"
Ruth was amazed at the suppressed fury of her tones, and at her eyes
which, but a moment before dim with weeping, now blazed with
indignation. Evidently the child had passed through a severe mental
strain.
"Don't, dear," she said gently. "No one could be so cruel as to want to
speak against your father. I am glad you love him so dearly; he can
always help you. You will not want to disappoint him in any way, you
know."
The girl looked at her searchingly as one startled. This was evidently a
new thought; it took hold of her heart. A softened light came into her
unusually expressive eyes and after a moment she said very gently:--
"No one ever said anything to me like that, before. It helps."
They made great strides toward intimacy even in that first morning. So
great that when Ruth, pitying the girl's loneliness and evident dread of
the people by whom she was surrounded, proposed that she send for her to
come and take dinner with Mrs. Roberts and herself, she caught at the
suggestion with an eagerness which showed what a relief it was to her;
and then almost immediately demurred.
"But I ought not to presume in that way. I am certain the Madame will
think so. Will not your friend think it very strange in me, a stranger,
to intrude upon her home?"
"Wait until you see her," Ruth said, smiling. "Mrs. Roberts and I are
very old friends, and I am almost as much at home in her house as I am
in my own."
As she spoke, she felt a sudden stricture at her heart over those
commonplace words. Was she not in these later days almost more at home
in Flossy's house than in her own?
But Maybelle's face had gloomed over.
"I think I must not go, Mrs. Burnham," she said. "I suppose I ought not
to wish, or even be willing to go; I am sure Madame Sternheim will be
shocked at the idea. I am in deep mourning, you know, and my loss is so
recent."
Unconsciously the child had imitated the prim decorum of her Mentor, and
it had changed her entire face.
Ruth leaned forward impulsively and kissed her, while she spoke with a
smile:--
"Dear child, be yourself, and not Madame Sternheim. Adopt me, will you,
and let me attend to the decorum part, and all the rest. Mrs. Roberts is
quite alone, save for me; her husband is away on a business trip, and
her children have scattered for the vacation; so we shall be very quiet,
we three; and there is no reason in the world why you should not come to
us. I want you to know Mrs. Roberts; she is anxious to see you, and
would have come with me this morning, if she had not thought it better
that you and I should make each other's acquaintance first. As for you,
you will love her the first time you look at her. Shall I speak to
Madame Sternheim myself about it?"
When this was done, Madame Sternheim was discovered to be graciousness
itself. She might be doubtful as to Mrs. Burnham's place in the world,
her knowledge of people being limited and very local, but the name of
Mrs. Evan Roberts called for instant approval, and to know that Mrs.
Burnham was her friend and guest was sufficient passport for her. It was
very kind and thoughtful in dear Mrs. Roberts, she was sure, to send for
the poor child; and very like her too, if all that the Madame had heard
concerning her was true. Did Mrs. Burnham know that her friend had the
name of always doing the most delicate kindnesses that no one else would
have thought of? She was really a wonderful woman? Madame Sternheim had
long wanted to know her. They need not trouble to send the dear child
home, she herself was going out this evening, and would have pleasure in
calling for Miss Somerville at ten o'clock.
"Isn't it beautiful here?" Maybelle said, a few hours later, as she sank
among the cushions of a "Sleepy Hollow" and feasted her beauty-loving
eyes on the harmonies of Mrs. Roberts's living-room. "It is like a poem,
or no, a picture; that is what it is like, Mrs. Burnham; one of papa's
pictures. How he would have loved this room! He was always making
sketches of sweet, dear, home rooms, and there was always a beautiful
mother in them with a baby in her arms. I think my mother must have been
very beautiful, for it was always the same face, and I know it was
intended for mamma, though he never told me so; I could not talk with
papa about her, ever, it made him cry. Don't you think it is dreadful to
see a man cry? When I started the tears in his dear blue eyes, I always
felt like a wretch! and for that reason I gave up trying to say anything
about mamma, though I should so love to have heard every little thing
about her. Papa must simply have adored her, but I have had to dream her
out for myself. I have spent hours and hours over it, studying papa's
sketches, you know, and trying to clothe them with flesh. I believe I
know just how she looked. Sometimes she would grow so real to me that I
almost expected her to hold out her arms and clasp me to them. I was a
wee baby, you know, when mamma went away."