ARTIST SYMPATHY.
The woman ceased speaking. During her whole narrative she had shed no
tears, but her voice was low and cold, like the air that comes from a
tomb. Her lips never quivered, but they grew white as death. While her
mother was talking, Ruth had partly risen and drew the window-curtains
softly together, hoping thus to shroud something of the grief which this
man had so painfully aroused. Then she sunk back upon her couch, and
looked at the stranger reproachfully through her tears. Mr. Ross sat
gazing upon the floor, with trouble in his eyes. He felt all the pain he
had given, and the thought was full of distress.
“Yes,” he said, at last. “I knew Laurence well. He was brave, noble,
well educated. How comes it that he took a position which proved so
fatal to him and to you?”
“He could get nothing better to do,” said Mrs. Laurence, drearily, “and
I had no power to help him. But for the children, I might have obtained
my old position as a teacher; but they needed all my care. At first, he
did not intend to remain in the police, but time reconciled us to it,
and he would soon have laid up enough capital for a start in business.
It is all gone now; for I would not let the children go out into the
world without education, and they loved study.”
“I can easily believe that,” said Ross, glancing at Ruth, who still kept
her position, with tears trembling on her eyelashes—a delicate, fair
girl, with the refinement of a cultivated intellect in every feature.
“At least you are blessed in the children my friend loved so well.”
“They are good children,” answered the woman, wearily; for the
excitement of her narrative had left her cold and weak. Still, the
stranger looked as if something was unexplained. He moved across the
room, and in a vague way took up the bit of drawing-paper, on which Ruth
had sketched her white roses. The delicacy of the touch, and free
unfolding of the buds, seemed to arrest his thoughts, and turn them into
another channel. His eyes brightened, and bending them upon Ruth, he
asked her if she had ever attempted anything in oils.
Ruth blushed and casting her eyes down, that he might not remark the
longing wish that spoke there, answered, “No; it had been impossible.”
He seemed to understand the craving wish that had never yet been
expressed, and after a moment’s hesitation, observed,
“I sometimes paint a little.” Then, after hesitating a minute, he added,
“There must be an upper room in your house which would give sufficient
light.”
“Yes,” answered Ruth, vaguely comprehending his idea. “But mother was in
hopes of letting that, if she could find a nice person.”
The flash of a kindly thought came into those dark eyes, and Ross seemed
about to speak; but he checked himself, looked at the sketch again, and
laid it down.
“Is your sister anything of an artist?” he inquired.
“Oh, Eva can do almost anything!” said Ruth, and her face brightened out
of its mournful look.
“She is older than you, I should think.”
“Older? Oh, yes! And a thousand times brighter than I ever shall be.
But, then, there is no one like our Eva.”
“She is, indeed, a bright, beautiful creature.”
“Everybody thinks that of her.”
The man looked earnestly at Ruth. Some thought was in his mind which he
did not know how to express. The girl before him was very lovely, but
part of this arose from that exquisite fairness, which exclusion from
the sun and frail health had imparted, and was in extreme contrast with
the dark, rich beauty of her sister. Ruth read something of this thought
in the man’s face and answered it, smiling.
“Yes, everybody wonders that we are so unlike; but that is in all
respects. She is strong, cheerful, splendid, while I—Oh, Sir! you can
see how different I am.”
“I can see that you are doing yourself injustice,” said Ross, taking his
hat. “But excuse me, that I have intruded so long, as your father’s old
friend. You must let me come again. I may be of some service.”
Mrs. Laurence bent her head, and her visitor departed.