As for Ruth, she thought of the matter in a troubled way, and shrank from entering into detail. The most she had done was to ask, hesitatingly, what she—Susan—would wear, on the evening in question. And Susan had answered her, coldly, that she “had not given the matter a thought, as yet.” She supposed it would be time enough to think about that when the hour for dressing arrived. In her heart she knew that she had but one thing to wear; and Ruth knew it too, and knew that it was ill-chosen and ill-made, and in every way inappropriate. Yet she actually turned away, feeling unable to cope with the coldness and the evident reserve of this young woman over whom she could not hope to have influence.
Curiously enough, it was gentle little Flossy who stepped into these troubled waters, and poured her noiseless drop of oil. She came in the morning, waiting for Ruth to go with her to make a farewell call on Marion Wilbur, the morning before the wedding; and in the library, among the plants, giving them loving little touches here and there, was Susan.
“What is Marion to wear for travelling, do you know?” Flossy had asked of Ruth, as some word about the journey suggested the thought. And Ruth had answered briefly, almost savagely:
“I don’t know. It is a blessed thing that no one will have to give it a thought. Marion will be sure to choose the most appropriate thing, and to have every detail in exquisite keeping with it. It is only lately that I have realized what a gift she had in that direction.”
Then Ruth had gone away to make ready, and wise little Flossy, looking after her with the far-away, thoughtful look in her soft eyes, began to see one of her annoyances plainly, and to wonder if there were any way of helping. Then she went down the long room to Susan, busy among the plants.
“How pretty they are!” she said, sweetly. “What gorgeous coloring, and delicate tracery in the leaves! Does it ever occur to you to wonder that such great skill should have been expended in just making them look pretty to please our eyes?”
“No,” said Susan, earnest and honest, “I don’t think I ever thought of it.”
“I do often. Just think of that ivy, it would have grown as rapidly and been quite as healthy if the leaves had been square, and all of them an intense green, instead of being shaded into that lovely dark, scolloped border all around the outer edge. ‘He has made every thing beautiful in his time.’ I found that verse one day last week, and I liked it so much. Since then I seem to be noticing everybody and everything, to see whether the beauty remains. I find it everywhere.”
All this was wonderfully new to Susan Erskine. She was silent and thoughtful. Presently she said, “It doesn’t apply to human beings—at least to many it doesn’t. I know good men and women who are not beautiful at all.”
“Wouldn’t that depend a little on what one meant by beauty?” Flossy said, timidly. Argument was not her forte. “And then, you know, He made the plants and flowers—created their beauty for them, I mean, because they are soulless things—I think he left to us who are immortal, a great deal of the fashioning to do for ourselves.”