QUEER TALK
The dress of this unfortunate in whose fate Beth had taken such a
strong interest, had already made the girl from Hudsonvale wonder. Such
a shocking combination of color and tawdry finery Beth had seldom seen,
even in a mill village, which Hudsonvale was.
Yet the tall, freckled girl wore the incongruous garments with utter
unconsciousness. She never seemed to give her dress a thought.
On a green straw hat of the season’s mode, was a purple feather, which
had plainly seen service in the rain. She wore a ragged feather boa and
a rather soiled brown silk waist much worn under the arms and evidently
originally built for a much fuller figure.
A black serge skirt of very narrow proportions seemed shrunk upon her,
and was spotted and shiny. Low brown shoes and spats completed the
costume.
“I suppose these awful garments are better than the uniform of the
institution she fled from,” thought Beth. Then she asked aloud: “What
did you think of doing when you ran away?”
Cynthia’s face blossomed into one of her unexpected smiles. “Just
thinking of running away,” she said.
“But how did you propose to live?” asked the practical Beth.
“By drawing my breath--the same as usual,” and the strange girl went
off into a spasm of laughter which Beth thought showed rather poor
taste to say the least.
“But we all must do something besides breathing to live,” she said
shortly.
“True,” said Cynthia. “Eat. And to eat we must have money, eh?”
“Yes,” said Beth, still with gravity.
“I intend to work,” said the older girl, composedly enough now.
“What kind of work can you do?”
Cynthia hesitated. She put her head on one side. Her eyes grew dark and
unfathomable again.
“I ought to get a job at housework, oughtn’t I?” she said.
“I don’t know,” said Beth, thoughtfully. “Wherever you apply for work
you will have a better chance of obtaining it if you look--look a
little more like other girls, don’t you think?”
“What?” questioned Cynthia, evidently puzzled.
“Why--your dress, I mean. Perhaps we can help you make your appearance
nicer.”
“You mean my clothes are ugly?” asked Cynthia, bluntly.
“And not altogether clean,” added Beth, quietly.
“Well, housemaids don’t have to dress very fancy, do they?” demanded
the refugee. “I got these things I am wearing from a girl who worked as
a maid and waitress, and I paid---- Well! I paid enough for them.”
“Of course,” mused Beth, “you couldn’t risk going out on the street in
your uniform.”
“My what?” exclaimed Cynthia.
“Why--uniform. Didn’t you all dress alike in that place where you were?”
Cynthia turned her face from Beth suddenly. “Oh--yes,” she said, in a
muffled tone. “I see. I just had to get different clothes.”
“Well, maybe we can fix you up a little better.”
“Who’s ‘we?’” demanded Cynthia, quickly and sharply.
“There is a friend here who is going to school too.”
“Are you on your way to school?” asked Cynthia.
“Yes,” Beth replied.
“What school?”
“Rivercliff.”
“And is that other girl I saw you with?”
“Yes. We had just met. She is an awfully nice girl. Maybe she can help.”
“What do you mean? To give me some of your clothes? Bless you, child!”
and this strange girl laughed heartily. “Both of you are chunky and I
am tall. Your clothes never would fit me in the world. I don’t want
skirts half way to my knees. Make me look like a giraffe reaching for
the highest branches of a cocoanut palm!”
She laughed again, and Beth joined her--but rather ruefully. To tell
the truth, Beth thought her strangely particular for a poor girl--a
runaway from an orphans’ home, or something of the kind.
But she did not prolong the argument with her guest. Cynthia Fogg (if
such was her name) was frankly yawning.
“We will talk of it in the morning,” Beth said, with sympathy. “I see
you are tired. You may take either berth----”
“Oh! I could never climb into an upper,” gasped Cynthia. “If I have to
sleep in such a place it has to be in the lower berth.”
Evidently the runaway was used to taking the best there was to be
had--whatever that best might be. She seemed quite careless of other
people’s needs or desires. She took Beth’s kindness in offering her the
choice of the berths quite as a matter of course.
Naturally, there was not much room in the stateroom for two people.
Cynthia seemed so tired that Beth sat back on a stool and allowed her
to undress first. The girl from Hudsonvale could not help noticing that
the stranger’s under-clothing was very good and spotlessly clean. These
did not match her outside apparel in the least. Beth Baldwin could not
help but think this strange.
“Well, I didn’t suppose I’d be sleeping in a stateroom to-night,” said
Cynthia, with a careless laugh, as she got into the wider lower berth.
“I didn’t have much money left after I bought these clothes of that
girl.”
Beth wanted to ask how she had obtained money at all at the orphan
asylum; but she did not wish to appear too curious. Perhaps they
allowed the girls there to earn money by outside work. Cynthia spoke as
though she had been bred to domestic service.
Beth, who was not unobservant, had looked more than once at the strange
girl’s hands. They were white and soft, well kept, and slenderly
formed--not at all the hands of a girl who had dabbled in dish-water or
used the mop and scrubbing brush. Her clean-cut features, too, and her
low, cultivated voice, certainly belied the thought that she had spent
her life in domestic service.
Beth began slowly to coil her hair for the night, having slipped out
of her shirt waist. Cynthia blinked at her for a moment, yawned twice
(showing very even, strong looking teeth, likewise perfectly kept) and
then--deep, even breathing from the lower berth warned the other girl
that Cynthia was asleep.