She hadn’t realized quite how much she had loved her mother until she died. Mother had been old-fashioned and fussy, but then all invalids were fussy, and she had been a dear about letting her go on with her studies after Father died, even though she wouldn’t move to Chicago as Ruth wished. They could have lived as cheaply in Chicago and Ruth could have gone to the art institute there, but Mother wouldn’t consent to the move. She wanted to stay near her friends. Ruth couldn’t understand that. Her mother’s friends were all such ordinary people. Kind-hearted, but quite hopelessly ordinary. It was curious that her mother’s death had realized for her one of her most cherished dreams. Mother knew that she was going to die. The doctors had told her so, and she had told Ruth. It made Ruth cry, but her mother didn’t shed any tears. That was why Ruth did. If her mother had cried Ruth would have been more controlled, but her mother was so unnaturally calm.
“When I am gone I want you to go to your father’s sister, Gloria Mayfield. I hate to send you there, but there’s no one else of your blood, and you’re too young to live alone. Gloria has retired from the stage and they say she is quite respectable now, and besides you won’t be dependent on her. Now that there will be no more doctors’ bills to pay, there will be enough money for you to live on, more than any young girl ought to have in her own hands. It is all in trust and you will have just the income until you are twenty-one.” Ruth made no comment to this. Having handled her mother’s business affairs she knew that her income would be very small indeed, but she and her mother had different ideas as to how much a young girl should spend. “Of course I expect you to pay your way with your aunt,” her mother went on. “But you must live with some older woman and she is your father’s sister.”
She said it as if the fact that Gloria Mayfield was her father’s sister answered all arguments.
“Where does Aunt Gloria live, Mother?” asked Ruth. She accepted the fact that her mother would die soon without making an effort to persuade either herself or her mother that there was any hope that the doctors might be mistaken. She had known for years that her mother would not live long. Doctors, New Thought, Christian Science, and Theosophy had all been appealed to without having any appreciable effect on her mother’s health. Ruth being perfectly healthy was inclined to have faith in the New Thought. She disliked the Science because of the word Christian, but was inclined to believe that any one of these numerous things might have helped if used alone. When her father had died first it had seemed unreal—impossible almost, for Ruth and her father had always expected her mother to go first, though neither of them would have put such a thought into words. It was just an unspoken understanding between them.
“In New York,” Mrs. Mayfield had answered; and Ruth was ashamed that her first thought on hearing this amazing news was that in New York she could study in the best American art schools.
“How old is she?” asked Ruth. She had been a bit troubled by her mother’s words about an older woman. Ruth had no desire to go to New York to be controlled by some elderly female relative.
“I don’t know. I never saw her. In her younger days she was abroad a great deal, and then I never cared to meet her. She was younger than your father, quite a lot younger, but she must have reached years of discretion by this time. I hope so for your sake. Perhaps I’m not doing the right thing by telling you to go to her, but after all she is your father’s sister and will be your only relative after I am gone.”
“Have you written to her—do you want me to write?”
“No. I didn’t write to her before and I can’t start now. You will go to her after I’m gone as your father’s daughter. Your claim on her is through him, not me. You can write to her yourself as soon—as soon as you know. Her address is in that little red book on the desk—at least that was her address five years ago, when your poor father died. She didn’t come to the funeral, though she did write to me, and she may have moved since. She probably has. I think on the whole you’d better write now so that the letter will have time to follow her.”
Ruth did write and her aunt had not moved, for by a curious coincidence Aunt Gloria’s answer came on the very day that her mother died. At the time, concerned with her grief, Ruth didn’t read the letter very carefully, but afterward—after the funeral, and after all the innumerable details had been settled, she went back to it and read it again. She didn’t know exactly what to think of it. It filled her with doubts. Almost she persuaded herself to disregard her mother’s wish and not go to Aunt Gloria at all, but she had already told all her mother’s kind friends that that was what she would do. It gave her a logical excuse for refusing all of the offers of the well-meaning women who asked her to come and stop with them “for a few weeks at least until you are more yourself.”