THE PICTURE GIRL
Little dreaming of the stirring events that awaited her, and without the
slightest anticipation of the new mystery and unusual responsibilities
that were crowding in upon her that day, Lucile took her Monday morning
train with the quiet composure of one who, having enjoyed a perfect
Sunday of rest, looks forward with enthusiasm to a day of interesting
service.
The supreme moment of that day arrived in a rather unusual place at a
time when the clock's hands were nearing the hour of 1:00. Before that,
however, there came hours of the usual toil which many would call
drudgery. From eight-thirty until ten there were few customers. Every
moment was taken up. Two truckloads of books had come down from the
apparently inexhaustable storerooms above. These must be placed on the
tables. Tables must be dusted; cash-books filled with blanks for the day;
books out of place must be returned to the proper section.
As Lucile came and went in the performance of her allotted tasks, she was
more and more impressed with what Laurie had said about this group of
loyal friends, this company of sales-people who were so much like a very
large family.
"They are all my friends, almost my kinsfolk," she told herself with a
little gulp of joy that was very near to tears.
And so they were. Even outside her little corner they greeted her with a
comradely smile. There was the pleasing lady who sold new fiction, and
the tumbled haired lady who sold travel books and had sold books in
stores from coast to coast. In the first alcove was the worried lady who
handled standard sets; in the second was the dignified one who murmured
in low, church-like tones of prayer books and rosaries; while in the
farthest, deepest alcove of all was dear old Morrison, the young-old man
with premature gray hair and a stoop. But his lustrous eyes were lighted
with an earnestness such as one seldom looks into, and he had an air of
poise and refinement and a smile of perfect fellowship. He sold fine
bindings, and knew them well. Besides that, he could tell you the name
and publishers of every book for serious minded people published since
the days of Ben Franklin.
Working among such people as these, and in spite of all her strenuous
hours of labor, Lucile dreaded the coming of Christmas Eve when she must
bid them all farewell and return to her studies. Never before had she
been so tempted to relinquish her cherished hope of university training
and to settle down to work among a host of interesting and loyal friends.
So the forenoon wore away, and with the passing of each hour the great
and startling event of that day came sixty minutes nearer.
The noon hour at last arrived. Having hastily eaten her paper-bag lunch,
Lucile hurried from the store. There was yet three-quarters of an hour to
spend. She would spend the time sauntering through a place of great
enchantment, the Art Museum.
Five minutes of battling with wind and intense cold, and she was there.
Racing up the stone steps, she paused an instant for breath. Then she
entered and hurried up the broad marble stairway. At last she came to a
place where a great circular leather cushioned seat in the center of a
room offered opportunity for perfect repose. There she sank down, to hide
her eyes with her hands until the frost and the glare of snow had left
them, then to open them slowly and to squint away contentedly toward the
wall which lay before her.
Before her, and a little to the left, was a painting from Ireland, the
work of a great master. It was a simple thing in a way, a boy clad in
humble garb shoveling snow, and a girl with a shawl thrown over her
shoulders, coming down the well cleaned path. Very simple people these,
but happy and kind. There were sparrows perched along the path. A very
humble theme, but such masses of wonderful color! Had she not seen it,
Lucile would not have believed that artists could have achieved such
perfection.
To the left was an equally lovely picture; dawn on the heather, the sun
rising from the dripping dewy green and a girl reaper going to her toil
with the song of a lark on her lips and joy in her eye.
These were the pictures that brought rest and joy to Lucile's half hour
of leisure and helped prepare her for events that cast no shadow before
them.
She had descended the marble stairs and was about to leave the building
when a picture arrested her attention; a living picture of a girl. And
such a girl as she was! A supple grace to her waist and shoulders, a
proper curve at the ankles, and a face--such a face! Cheeks aglow with
the color the frosty out-of-doors had given them. Cheeks offset by dark,
deep-set eyes, made darker still by eyelashes that were like hemlocks in
a snow covered valley, and a smooth oval forehead backed by a wealth of
short, wavy hair. This was the picture; only faintly sketched, for behind
all this beauty there was a certain strength of character, a force of
will that seemed a slumbering fire gleaming from her eyes. In the
background were people and marble pillars. The girl had just entered the
Museum and, uncertain of her way, stood irresolute.
"She's from the country," Lucile whispered to herself. "Her clothes show
that. But how startling, how unusual, how--how striking she is!
"She's like the pictures I've been seeing, they were unusual and
priceless. She is the same. And yet," a feeling of fear and sadness swept
over her, "those priceless pictures are carefully guarded night and day.
I wonder if she is? She seems alone. It's not to be wondered at, their
guarding those pictures. Who would not like one for his room? Who would
not love to open his eyes each morning upon the girl in the 'Song of the
Lark'? But they'd wish to possess that girl, too. A father, a mother,
sister, brother, would be proud to possess her, to look at her every
morning, a--anyone would. And yet, she's not--"
Her meditations were cut short by sight of a figure standing not ten feet
from her; a tall, slim, young man whose features might have been carved
from marble, and in whose eyes Lucile had surprised a steely glance such
as she had once caught in the beady eye of a down-swooping hawk.
And then, as if enacting her part in a play, the girl of this living
picture suddenly wavered where she stood. Her face went white, then with
a little, wavering cry, she crumpled in a heap on the marble floor.
Lucile could have sworn the girl was alone and uncertain of her next
move. She understood what had happened. Having traveled far in the
intense cold, the girl had been overcome by the heavy warmth of the
museum and had fainted. The thing that happened next puzzled Lucile
beyond belief.
After ten seconds of motionless panic, a half score of people sprang to
her assistance. But the young man, he of the marble features and steely
eye, was first up.
"It's all right," he was saying in a quiet, even tone, "she's my sister.
I'll take care of her. We have a car outside."
Lifting the unconscious girl in his arms, he started for the door.
"It's not all right! It's not all right!" Lucile fairly shrieked the
words.
To her vast astonishment, the next moment she was gripping a burly guard
by the arm and saying in a voice hoarse with emotion:
"It's not all right! He's not her brother. He--he's stealing her! Stop
them!"
To her further astonishment, the guard believed her. With three strides
he reached the door and blocked it.
"Here! Here!" he said in the tone of one who is accustomed to be obeyed.
"It won't do. You can't take her out like that."
"Oh, all right," there was a note of forced indifference in the young
man's voice, but there was murder in his cold, hard eyes. "All right, if
you know so much. Fetch some water and get her out of it. She'll tell you
I'm her brother. But be quick about it. You're a beef-head for ordering a
gentleman about."
Lucile's heart went to the bottom of her shoes. What was this? Had her
emotions led her astray? Was he indeed the girl's brother? It would seem
so, else why would he consent so readily to the delay, which must mean
proof one way or another? She was soon to see. Tremblingly, she awaited
the outcome. Dropping upon the marble floor, she pillowed the girl's head
in her lap and brushing away the hair from the face, caressed the cold
forehead with a soft hand.
When the water had been brought Lucile dampened her handkerchief and laid
it icy cold on the other's forehead. Almost instantly the eyes opened and
the girl, having dragged herself to a sitting position, stared about the
museum.
"Wha--where am I?" she asked. "What has happened?"
"You're in the Art Museum. You fainted."
"Faint--fainted!" There was terror in her eyes.
"It was the cold. It's nothing, really nothing." Lucile put a steadying
arm about her. "You'll be quite all right in a moment."
"Now where is that brother of hers?" grumbled the guard. "He's nowhere to
be seen! He's gone!"
"Gone?" echoed Lucile.
"Brother?" said the girl in astonishment. "I have no brother. I am
alone."
Such a wave of feeling swept over Lucile as made her sick and faint. She
had been right, dreadfully right. She had saved this girl, this wonderful
creature, from--she dared not think from what.
For a moment, rocked by her emotions, she sat there in silence. At last,
with a supreme effort, she dragged herself to her feet.
"You look the worst of the two," said the guard, giving her a keen
glance.
"I'm all right," she protested stoutly.
To the girl, whom she had assisted to her feet, she said, "You may come
with me if you wish. Our store's only two blocks away. There's a rest
room. You'll be all right there until you sort of get your bearings.
Perhaps I can help you."
"I'd--I'd be glad to," said the other, clinging to her impulsively.
So they left the museum together. Though she kept a sharp watch to right
and left, Lucile caught no sign of the volunteer brother, but she
shivered once or twice at the very thought of him.
* * * * * * * *
It was a very much perplexed Lucile who curled up in her big chair that
night for a few moments of quiet thought before retiring.
A new mystery had been added to her already well filled list of strange
doings. "First," she said to herself, telling them off like beads on a
rosary, "there comes the beautiful mystery woman and the cape she left
behind; then Laurie Seymour and the vanishing author; then the crimson
thread; and now this girl."
As she whispered this last she nodded toward the bed. There, lying
wrapped in slumber, was the beautiful girl she had saved in the museum.
"She's even more beautiful in sleep than when awake," Lucile murmured.
"And such a strange creature! She hasn't told me a thing."
The last statement was entirely true. Any notion Lucile had of the girl,
any guess at her hidden secrets, was based on observation and conjecture
alone. Not one word regarding them had escaped the strange girl's lips.
Having accompanied Lucile to the store, she had lain upon a couch in the
"quiet room" for three hours. Whenever Lucile had stolen a moment from
work to look in upon her, the girl had appeared to be day-dreaming. Far
from being worried about events of the past or the immediate future, she
had appeared to be enjoying the recalling of an interesting adventure or
anticipating one.
At five she had risen from the cot and, having brushed her hair and
arranged her clothing, had insisted upon helping her new-found friend to
put her tables to rights. She had accepted Lucile's invitation to pass
the night with her with the nonchalance of one who is offered this
courtesy from a long-time friend.
Innocent of one scrap of baggage, in the same manner she had accepted
Lucile's offer of a dream robe.
In only one respect had she showed her independence. Having produced a
dollar bill from somewhere on her person, she had insisted on paying for
her own frugal lunch.
"Her clothes are the strangest of all," Lucile whispered to herself.
"When a girl comes upon a run of hard luck, she's likely to try to keep
up an appearance even though she is shabby underneath. But look at her; a
countrified suit of shiny blue serge, two years behind the times, and her
undergarments are new and of the finest silk, up to the minute, too. How
is one to explain that?"
She was not disturbed in the least about the girl's morals. She was as
sweet and clean as a fresh blooming rose. Lucile would have sworn to
that. With the lights turned out, and with the tingling winter air
entering the open window, before retiring the girl had joined Lucile in
the nightly "setting up" exercises and had appeared to enjoy them, too.
The strange girl's skin was like the finest satin. Her lines were
perfect, her muscles superb. Through lack of knowledge of the exercises,
she often blundered. But she could whirl more quickly, leap higher and
swing about more gracefully than Lucile, who had never failed to throw
her whole heart into her gym work.
"All that," Lucile murmured as she drew off her bathrobe preparatory to
slipping beneath the covers, "all that, and she has not told me one word
about herself. For a country girl she certainly has her full supply of
reserve. To-morrow I am to try to get work for her as a wrapper. No doubt
I can do it. And then?"
She thought about the future for a moment. She was alone this year. If
you have read our book, "The Cruise of the O'Moo," you will remember that
while living in the yacht in dry dock she had two companions--Florence
and Marion. Florence had gone home. Marion was in Alaska. Now Lucile was
alone. She would welcome a friend and, unless she had misread her
character, this girl had the qualities of a steadfast and loyal pal.
"But her past?" Lucile whispered as she placed her slippers beneath the
bed and drew back the covers. "Ah well, we shall see."
Once during the night she was wakened by the girl, who was evidently
talking in her sleep.
"Don't let them. Don't! Don't!" she all but screamed as she threw out her
arms for protection from some dream foe.
Putting her arms about her, Lucile held her tight until the dream had
passed and she fell back once more into peaceful slumber.