By the time Mrs. Parrot left us, housekeeper, governess, and maid had
been obtained in New York through agencies of the highest
respectability.
Miss Goucher, the housekeeper, proved to be a tall, big-framed spinster,
rising fifty; a capable, taciturn woman with a positive talent for
minding her own affairs. She had bleak, light-gray eyes, a rudderlike
nose, and a harsh, positive way of speech that was less disagreeable
than it might have been, because she so seldom spoke at all. Having
hoped for a more amiable presence, I was of two minds over keeping her;
but she took charge of my house so promptly and efficiently, and effaced
herself so thoroughly--a difficult feat for so definite a figure--that
in the end there was nothing I could complain of; and so she stayed.
Miss Disbrow on the other hand, who came as governess, was all that I
had dared to wish for; a graceful, light-footed, soft-voiced girl--she
was not yet thirty--with charming manners, a fluent command of the
purest convent-taught French, a nice touch on the piano, and apparently
some slight acquaintance with the solider branches. Merely to associate
with Miss Disbrow would, I felt, do much for Susan.
I was less certain about Sonia, the maid. I had asked for a middle-aged
English maid. Sonia was Russian, and she was only twenty-three. But she
was sent directly to me from service with Countess
Dimbrovitski--formerly, as you know, Maud Hochstetter, of Omaha--and
brought with her a most glowing reference for skill, honesty, and
unfailing tact. Countess Dimbrovitski did not explain in the reference,
dated from Newport, why she had permitted this paragon to slip from her;
nor did it occur to me to investigate the point. But Sonia later
explained it all, in intimate detail, to Susan--as we shall see.
I had feared that Susan might be at first a little bewildered by the
attentions of Sonia and of Miss Disbrow; so I explained the unusual
situation to Miss Goucher and Miss Disbrow--with certain
reservations--and asked them to make it clear to Sonia. Miss Goucher
merely nodded, curtly enough, and said she understood. Miss Disbrow
proved more curious and more voluble.
"How wonderful of you, Mr. Hunt!" she exclaimed. "To take in a poor
little waif and do all this for her! Personally, I count it a privilege
to be allowed some share in so generous an action. Oh, but I do--I do.
One likes to feel, even when forced to work for one's living, that one
has some little opportunity to do good in the world. Life isn't," asked
Miss Disbrow, "all money-grubbing and selfishness, is it?" And as I
found no ready answer, she concluded: "But I need hardly ask that of
you!"
For the fleetingest second I found myself wondering whether Miss
Disbrow, deep down in her hidden heart, might not be a minx. Yet her
glance, the happiest mixture of frankness, timidity, and respectful
admiration, disarmed me. I dismissed the unworthy suspicion as absurd.
I was a little troubled, though, when Susan that same evening after
dinner came to me in the library and seated herself on a low stool
facing my easy-chair.
"Ambo," she said, "I've been blind as blind, haven't I?"
"Have you?" I responded. "For a blind girl, it's wonderful how you find
your way about!"
"But I'm not joking--and that's just it," said Susan.
"What's wrong, dear?" I asked. "I see something is."
"Yes. I am. The wrongest possible. I've just dumped myself on you, and
stayed here; and--and I've no damn business here at all!"
"I thought we were going to forget the damns and hells, Susan?"
"We are," said Susan, coloring sharply and looking as if she wanted to
cry. "But when you've heard them, and worse, every minute all your
life--it's pretty hard to forget. You must scold me more!" Then with a
swift movement she leaned forward and laid her cheek on my knee. "You're
too good to me, Ambo. I oughtn't to be here--wearing wonderful dresses,
having a maid to do my hair and--and polish me and button me and mend
me. I wasn't meant to have an easy time; I wasn't born for it. First
thing you know, Ambo, I'll get to thinking I was--and be mean to you
somehow!"
"I'll risk that, Susan."
"Yes, but I oughtn't to let you. I could learn to be somebody's maid
like Sonia; and if I study hard--and I'm going to!--some day I could be
a governess like Miss Disbrow; only really know things, not just
pretend. Or when I'm old enough, a housekeeper like Miss Goucher! That's
what you should make me do--work for you! I can clean things better than
Nora now; I never skip underneaths. Truly, Ambo, it's all wrong, my
having people work for me--at your expense. I know it is! Miss Disbrow
made it all clear as clear, right away."
"What! Has Miss Disbrow been stuffing this nonsense into your head!" I
was furious.
"Oh, not in words!" cried Susan. "She talks just the other way. She
keeps telling me how fortunate I am to have a guardian like you, and how
I must be so careful never to annoy you or make you regret what you've
done for me. Then she sighs and says life is very hard and unjust to
many girls born with more advantages. Of course she means herself, Ambo.
You see, she hates having to work at all. She's much nicer to look at
and talk to, but she reminds me of Pearl. She's no damn--she's no good,
Ambo dear. She's hard where she ought to be soft, and soft where she
ought to be hard. She tries to get round people, so she can coax things
out of them. But she'll never get round Miss Goucher, Ambo--or me." And
Susan hesitated, lifting her head from my knee and looking up at me
doubtfully, only to add, "I--I'm not so sure about _you_."
"Indeed. You think, possibly, Miss Disbrow might get round me, eh?"
"Well, she might--if I wasn't here," said Susan. "She might marry you."
My explosion of laughter--I am ordinarily a quiet person--startled
Susan. "Have I said something awful again?" she cried.
"Dreadful!" I sputtered, wiping my eyes. "Why, you little goose! Don't
you see how I need you? To plumb the depths for me--to protect me? I
thought I was your guardian, Susan; but that's just my mannish
complacency. I'm not your guardian at all, dear. You're mine."
But I saw at once that my mirth had confused her, had hurt her
feelings.... I reached out for her hands and drew her upon my knees.
"Susan," I said, "Miss Disbrow couldn't marry me even if she got round
me, and wanted to. You see, I have a wife already."
Susan stared at me with wide, frightened eyes. "You have, Ambo? Where is
she?"
"She left me two years ago."
"Left you?" It was evident that she did not understand. "Oh--what will
she say when she comes home and finds _me_ here? She won't like it; she
won't like me!" wailed Susan. "I know she won't."
"Hush, dear. She's not coming home again. She made up her mind that she
couldn't live with me any more."
"What's her name?"
"Gertrude."
"Why couldn't she live with you, Ambo?"
"She said I was cruel to her."
"_Weren't_ you good to her, Ambo? Why? Didn't you like her?"
The rapid questions were so unexpected, so searching, that I gasped. And
my first impulse was to lie to Susan, to put her off with a few
conventional phrases--phrases that would lead the child to suppose me a
wronged, lonely, broken-hearted man. This would win me a sympathy I had
not quite realized that I craved. But Susan's eyes were merciless, and I
couldn't manage it. Instead, I surprised myself by blurting out: "That's
about it, Susan. I didn't like her--enough. We couldn't hit it off,
somehow. I'm afraid I wasn't very kind."
Instantly Susan's thin arms went about my neck, and her cheek was
pressed tight to mine.
"Poor Ambo!" she whispered. "I'm so sorry you weren't kind. It must
_hurt_ you so." Then she jumped from my knees.
"Ambo!" she demanded. "Is my room--_her_ room? Is it?"
"Certainly not. It isn't hers any more. She's never coming back, I tell
you. She put me out of her life once for all; and God knows I've put her
out of mine!"
"If you can't let me have another room, Ambo--I'll have to go."
"Why? Hang it all, Susan, don't be silly! Don't make difficulties where
none exist! What an odd, overstrained child you are!" I was a little
annoyed.
"Yes," nodded Susan gravely, "I see now why Gertrude left you. But she
must be awfully stupid not to know it's only your outside that's made
like that!"
Next morning, without a permissive word from me, Susan had Miss Goucher
move all her things to a small bedroom at the back of the house,
overlooking the garden. This silent flitting irritated me not a little,
and that afternoon I had a frank little talk with Miss Disbrow--franker,
perhaps, than I had intended. Miss Disbrow at once gave me notice, and
left for New York within two hours, letting it be known that she
expected her trunks to be sent after her.
"Gutter-snipes are not my specialty," was her parting word.