The reigning belle

“She has gone—mother, I mean,” said Ruth, troubled with a fear that their visitor might be offended.

Mrs. Carter turned her head with a little disdainful toss.

“Yes, I see. Not very good manners; but to be expected.”

“Mother is so much alone, she sometimes forgets.”

“I should think as much. But that is neither here nor there. If old women choose to cut up rusty they are welcome, for anything I care. But we were talking about the picters for my boudoir. How long will it take you to paint em?”

“Then you were really in earnest? You meant it?” cried Ruth, catching her breath, and clasping her hands in an ecstasy of delight.

“Meant it? Of course I did. Ross has just ripped every one of my picters off of the wall, and says they aint worth the frames, which are lovely, Miss; and I’m sure the paintings were just as bright as red, and green, and yellow could make them. But, hoity-toity! my gentleman just pitched them into the coach-house; and I solemnly believe they are hung up in Battle’s room this minute. ‘Now,’ says he, ‘fill them empty frames with something worth looking at.’

“But where are they coming from?” says I, huffy as could be, for I didn’t like them empty frames lyin’ in a heap on the floor. Then he brought down two or three of the things,—‘rough gems’ he called ’em,—that you had sent to him, and put them in the frames. I aint no judge perhaps,—so don’t be offended!—but, really, now, they did not make half the show that the others did; but he said, there was ‘downright genius in them,’ and I gave in about it. So, if you could come to my house,—which, of course, you can’t—them four picters are all you would see in my boudoir, instead of them he had turned out of doors. “Now, my dear, how much am I to pay you for them?”

“How—how much? Oh, madam, I—I——”

Then Ruth put both hands to her face, and burst into a passion of warm, sweet tears, that shook her slight frame from head to foot.

“Well, now, I never did,” said Mrs. Carter, half starting from her seat. “He thought you would be delighted.”

“And so I am—the happiest, happiest creature that ever lived. Oh, madam, you seem to me like an angel.”

Mrs. Carter lifted her head and plumed herself like a peacock.

“I’m sure I don’t pretend to anything of that sort, being just a trifle stout, and not given to flying. But if you like to think so, and it makes you happy, I wont disturb the idea, because it reminds me of things Carter used to say years and years ago, when we first went to housekeeping in two rooms, with a closet in the cellar for wood and coal. Then—then——”

All at once, even to her own astonishment, the woman broke down, her eyes filled with tears, and her bosom heaved with sobs. Impatient with herself, she snatched a handkerchief from her pocket, and swept its rich lace across the redness of her eyes, and gave out a gurgling, hysterical laugh.

“I wonder what’s come over me,” she said, at last, shaking out her moist handkerchief. “There is no telling about me. Carter says I always was a sensitive cretur. Well, Miss Laurence, we were speaking about them pictures. How much now? Ross thought that twenty-five dollars apiece would be little enough.”

“Twenty-five dollars!” exclaimed Ruth, and her large eyes widened like those of an astonished child. “Oh, madam you cannot mean it!”

“What! you don’t think it enough? Well, say thirty; though I have seen pictures twice their size sell for less. Will thirty satisfy you?”

“Oh, madam, I know you are too kind for that but it seems as if you were mocking me. The amount you mentioned first, is so much that I can scarcely believe it.”

The poor girl really could not comprehend her good fortune; she trembled all over. Her great eyes were bent on Mrs. Carter with pleading entreaty, that this cruel, cruel trifling might cease.

Mrs. Carter could not understand all this, but had a vague idea that the price she offered was satisfactory.

“Well,” she said, drawing a reticule-purse from her pocket by its gold chains, and taking from that a roll of money, “if you are content with twenty-five, I don’t mind throwing in a trifle, so we will make it thirty. There it is—six twenties; and I must say, it does me good to pay it over. Just roll it up, and buy yourself something nice with it. There! there!”

Mrs. Carter came close to Ruth, and bent over her with the money fluttering from her gloved fingers. Instead of receiving it with smiles, as the good woman expected, the young creature, half rose from her cushions, wound both arms around that short neck, and kissed the smiling face with a passionate outburst of gratitude, which awoke all the warm genial womanhood of Mrs. Carter’s nature into active life.

“Why, why, dear child! what have I done, that you should smother me with kisses, and hold on to me as if—as if you were my own child, as I wish from the bottom of my heart you were?”

“Oh, madam, you are so good. You have made me the happiest creature that ever lived,” cried Ruth.

“There, there, don’t set me off again,” said Mrs. Carter, patting both those trembling little hands with her own. “Does a little money make you so happy? Well, just at first, I remember, it does. But then one gets used to it. By-and-by you won’t care. Come, now, put up your money, and the next picture will be worth more. Ross is going to show you how to touch ’em up; and he can do it, if any one can, for he belongs to some great pictur academy across the seas, and is A. number one at painting.”

In a soft, motherly fashion, Mrs. Carter laid the young girl back upon her couch, and began smoothing her beautiful hair. In the fullness of her content, she answered back with broad sympathy the smiles that came around those parted lips, and the look of ineffable happiness that filled those dove-like eyes, with something more beautiful than sunshine.

“It is true! it is real! and I am good for something!” murmured Ruth, holding the money up that she might feast her eyes upon it. “Oh, madam! God sent you here! I was weak and helpless; while others worked, I could only pray. See how the blessed Lord has answered me! I know it is not my poor little pictures, but your goodness that has done this—my prayers and your goodness!”

“You are just a lovely little darling, anyhow; but here is some one coming. There, now, we are ready.”

Mrs. Carter gathered up the floating notes, crushed them into a ball, and hid them under the pillow of the couch. Then she wiped Ruth’s eyes with her cobweb handkerchief, passed it over her own wet lashes, and called out, “Come in!” as a vigorous knock sounded from the front door.