The visit of Ellen was extended from one night to three. The piano was a
beautiful one, far better than the harsh-toned upright in the Tolliver
parlor in the Town, and Ellen gladly played for hours with only Lily,
lying among the cushions, and old Julia Shane, lost in her own fantastic
memories, for an audience.
On the third night, long after twelve o’clock, as Lily and her cousin
climbed the long stairway, the older woman said, “I have some clothes,
Ellen, that you may have if you like. They have been worn only a few
times and they are more beautiful than anything you can find in
America.”
The girl did not answer until they had reached Lily’s room and closed
the door behind them. Her face was flushed with the silent struggle
between a hunger for beautiful things and a fantastic pride, born of
respectable poverty. In some way, her cousin sensed the struggle.
“They are yours if you want them,” she said. “You can try them on if you
like at any rate.”
Ellen smiled gratefully. “I’d like to,” she said timidly. “Thank you.”
While the girl took off her shirtwaist and skirt, Lily busied herself
among the shadows of her closet. When she returned she bore across her
arms three gowns, one dull red, one black and one yellow. The girl stood
waiting shyly, clad only in her cheap underclothing coarsened and
yellowed by many launderings.
“You must take those things off,” said Lily. “I’ll give you others.” And
she brought out undergarments of white silk which Ellen put on,
shivering a little in the chill of the big room.
Then Lily took the pale yellow gown and slipped it over her cousin’s
head. It belonged to no period of fashion. It hung from the shoulders
in loose folds of shining silk, clinging close to the girl’s slim body.
There was a silver girdle which fastened over the hips. Ellen turned to
regard herself in the mirror.
“But wait,” said Lily, laughing, “you’ve only begun. We’ve got to change
your hair and do away with that ridiculous rat. Why do you spoil such
beautiful hair with a wad of old wire?”
She took out the pins and let the hair fall in a clear, black shower. It
was beautiful hair of the thick, sooty-black color that goes with fair
skin and blue eyes. It fell in great coils over the pale yellow gown.
Lily, twisting it into loose strands, held it against the light of the
lamp.
“Beautiful hair,” she said, “like the hair of Rapunzel.”
Then she twisted it low about Ellen’s head, loosely so that the light,
striking the free ends created a kind of halo. With a supreme gesture of
scorn, she tossed the “rat” into the scrap basket.
“There,” she said, turning her cousin to face the long mirror.
“There.... Behold the great pianist ... the great artist.”
In the magical mirror stood a tall lovely woman. The ridiculous awkward
girl had vanished; it was another creature who stood there transfigured
and beautiful. And in her frank blue eyes, there was a new look,
something of astonishment mingled with determination. The magical mirror
had done its work. From that moment the girl became a stranger to the
Town. She had come of age and slipped all unconsciously into a new
world.
With shining eyes she turned and faced her cousin.
“May I really have the clothes, Lily?”
“Of course, you silly child!”
And Lily smiled because the clothes had never been worn at all. They
were completely new.