The Greatest Works of Anna Katharine Green. Анна Грин
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wear mourning; but she is in some great trouble for all that. But this cannot interest you, Miss Butterworth; have you some protégé whom you wished to recommend for the position?”
I heard her, but did not answer at once. In fact, I was thinking how to proceed. Should I take her into my confidence, or should I continue in the ambiguous manner in which I had begun. Seeing her smile, I became conscious of the awkward silence.
“Pardon me,” said I, resuming my best manner, “but there is something I want to say which may strike you as peculiar.”
“O no,” said she.
“I am interested in the girl you have befriended, and for very different reasons from those you suppose. I fear—I have great reason to fear—that she is not just the person you would like to harbor under your roof.”
“Indeed! Why, what do you know about her? Anything bad, Miss Butterworth?”
I shook my head, and prayed her first to tell me how the girl looked and under what circumstances she came to her; for I was desirous of making no mistake concerning her identity with the person of whom I was in search.
“She is a sweet-looking girl,” was the answer I received; “not beautiful, but interesting in expression and manner. She has brown hair,”—I shuddered,—“brown eyes, and a mouth that would be lovely if it ever smiled. In fact, she is very attractive and so lady-like that I have desired to make a companion of her. But while attentive to all her duties, and manifestly grateful to me for the home I have given her, she shows so little desire for company or conversation that I have desisted for the last day or so from urging her to speak at all. But you asked me under what circumstances she came to me?”
“Yes, on what day, and at what time of day? Was she dressed well, or did her clothes look shabby?”
“She came on the very day I advertised; the eighteenth—yes, it was the eighteenth of this month; and she was dressed, so far as I noticed, very neatly. Indeed, her clothes appeared to be new. They needed to have been, for she brought nothing with her save what was contained in a small hand-bag.”
“Also new?” I suggested.
“Very likely; I did not observe.”
“O Miss Althorpe!” I exclaimed, this time with considerable vehemence, “I fear, or rather I hope, she is the woman I want.”
“You want!”
“Yes, I; but I cannot tell you for what just yet. I must be sure, for I would not subject an innocent person to suspicion any more than you would.”
“Suspicion! She is not honest, then? That would worry me, Miss Butterworth, for the house is full now, as you know, of wedding presents, and—But I cannot believe such a thing of her. It is some other fault she has, less despicable and degrading.”
“I do not say she has any faults; I only said I feared. What name does she go by?”
“Oliver; Ruth Oliver.”
Again I thought of the O. R. on the clothes at the laundry.
“I wish I could see her,” I ventured. “I would give anything for a peep at her face unobserved.”
“I don’t know how I can manage that; she is very shy, and never shows herself in the front of the house. She even dines in her own room, having begged for that privilege till after I was married and the household settled on a new basis. But you can go to her room with me. If she is all right, she can have no objection to a visitor; and if she is not, it would be well for me to know it at once.”
“Certainly,” said I, and rose to follow her, turning over in my mind how I should account to this young woman for my intrusion. I had just arrived at what I considered a sensible conclusion, when Miss Althorpe, leaning towards me, said with a whole-souled impetuosity for which I could not but admire her:
“The girl is very nervous, she looks and acts like a person who has had some frightful shock. Don’t alarm her, Miss Butterworth, and don’t accuse her of anything wrong too suddenly. Perhaps she is innocent, and perhaps if she is not innocent, she has been driven into evil by very great temptations. I am sorry for her, whether she is simply unhappy or deeply remorseful. For I never saw a sweeter face, or eyes with such boundless depths of misery in them.”
Just what Mrs. Desberger had said! Strange, but I began to feel a certain sort of sympathy for the wretched being I was hunting down.
“I will be careful,” said I. “I merely want to satisfy myself that she is the same girl I heard of last from a Mrs. Desberger.”
Miss Althorpe, who was now half-way up the rich staircase which makes her house one of the most remarkable in the city, turned and gave me a quick look over her shoulder.
“I don’t know Mrs. Desberger,” she remarked.
At which I smiled. Did she think Mrs. Desberger in society?
At the end of an upper passage-way we paused.
“This is the door,” whispered Miss Althorpe. “Perhaps I had better go in first and see if she is at all prepared for company.”
I was glad to have her do so, for I felt as if I needed to prepare myself for encountering this young girl, over whom, in my mind, hung the dreadful suspicion of murder.
But the time between Miss Althorpe’s knock and her entrance, short as it was, was longer than that which elapsed between her going in and her hasty reappearance.
“You can have your wish,” said she. “She is lying on her bed asleep, and you can see her without being observed. But,” she entreated, with a passionate grip of my arm, which proclaimed her warm nature, “doesn’t it seem a little like taking advantage of her?”
“Circumstances justify it in this case,” I replied, admiring the consideration of my hostess, but not thinking it worth while to emulate it. And with very little ceremony I pushed open the door and entered the room of the so-called Ruth Oliver.
The hush and quiet which met me, though nothing more than I had reason to expect, gave me my first shock, and the young figure outstretched on a bed of dainty whiteness, my second. Everything about me was so peaceful, and the delicate blue and white of the room so expressive of innocence and repose, that my feet instinctively moved more softly over the polished floor and paused, when they did pause, before that dimly shrouded bed, with something like hesitation in their usually emphatic tread.
The face of that bed’s occupant, which I could now plainly see, may have had an influence in producing this effect. It was so rounded with health, and yet so haggard with trouble. Not knowing whether Miss Althorpe was behind me or not, but too intent upon the sleeping girl to care, I bent over the half-averted features and studied them carefully.
They were indeed Madonna-like, something which I had not expected, notwithstanding the assurances I had received to that effect, and while distorted with suffering, amply accounted for the interest shown in her by the good-hearted Mrs. Desberger and the cultured Miss Althorpe.
Resenting this beauty, which so poorly accommodated itself to the character of the woman who possessed it, I leaned nearer, searching for some defect in her loveliness, when I saw that the struggle and anguish visible in her expression were due to some dream she was having.
Moved, even against my will, by the touching sight of her trembling eyelids and working mouth, I was about to wake her when I was stopped by the gentle touch of Miss Althorpe on my shoulder.
“Is she the girl you are looking for?”
I gave one quick glance around the room, and my eyes lighted on the little blue pin-cushion on the satin-wood bureau.
“Did you put those pins there?” I asked, pointing to a dozen or more black pins grouped in one corner.
“I did not, no; and I doubt if Crescenze did. Why?”