XXIII
Ruth Oliver
From Mrs. Desberger’s I rode immediately to Miss Althorpe’s, for the purpose of satisfying myself at once as to the presence there of the unhappy fugitive I was tracing.
Six o’clock Sunday night is not a favorable hour for calling at a young lady’s house, especially when that lady has a lover who is in the habit of taking tea with the family. But I was in a mood to transgress all rules and even to forget the rights of lovers. Besides, much is forgiven a woman of my stamp, especially by a person of the good sense and amiability of Miss Althorpe.
That I was not mistaken in my calculations was evident from the greeting I received. Miss Althorpe came forward as graciously and with as little surprise in her manner as anyone could expect under the circumstances, and for a moment I was so touched by her beauty and the unaffected charm of her manners that I forgot my errand and only thought of the pleasure of meeting a lady who fairly comes up to the standard one has secretly set for one’s self. Of course she is much younger than I—some say she is only twenty-three; but a lady is a lady at any age, and Ella Althorpe might be a model for a much older woman than myself.
The room in which we were seated was a large one, and though I could hear Mr. Stone’s voice in the adjoining apartment, I did not fear to broach the subject I had come to discuss.
“You may think this intrusion an odd one,” I began, “but I believe you advertised a few days ago for a young lady-companion. Have you been suited, Miss Althorpe?”
“O yes; I have a young person with me whom I like very much.”
“Ah, you are supplied! Is she anyone you know?”
“No, she is a stranger, and what is more, she brought no recommendations with her. But her appearance is so attractive and her desire for the place was so great, that I consented to try her. And she is very satisfactory, poor girl! very satisfactory indeed!”
Ah, here was an opportunity for questions. Without showing too much eagerness and yet with a proper show of interest, I smilingly remarked:
“No one can be called poor long who remains under your roof, Miss Althorpe. But perhaps she has lost friends; so many nice girls are thrown upon their own resources by the death of relatives?”
“She does not 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 ladylike 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 handbag.”
“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
