She smiles as she remembers Mr. Wylie’s good-natured banter and his questions as to her trustworthiness and honesty.
“As if my word would be of any worth if I were not honest,� she thinks. And then Mr. Wylie talks to her father, and—here she is, surrounded by all the luxury she coveted, with the tumult and noise of the great city beneath her window.
Tibby rises from her chair and stretches her arms high above her head with a cat-like yawn, then walks with padding footsteps up and down the thick-carpeted room, and back and forth before the long mirror, smiling at the trim, well-dressed figure reflected therein. And the face in the mirror smiles back at her, till the dimples deepen in the blooming cheeks and the red-curved lips open to reveal the gleaming rows of teeth behind them.
“Tibby, Tibby,� the girl whispers to the reflection, “your feet have been shod in French slippers and set in pleasant places. You have pretty gowns and dainty ribbons. If you are only a nurse-girl, you have much to be thankful for. You can learn to be a lady, and you must be very, very good, so these advantages shall not be taken away from you. It will be your own fault, your own fault, Tibby Waring, if you ever go back to—to—� She hesitates, and stopping before the mirror she looks long and searchingly into its crystal depths.
The little Swiss clock on the mantel chimes musically. It is nine o’clock. But Tibby’s eyes are half-closed, and she sees beyond her own reflection the plain family room at the farm-house, with its bright rag-carpet on the floor and its chintz-covered chairs. She sees her gray-haired father dozing in his chair tilted back against the wall, with his hands clasped before him. She sees Tom sleeping, stretched out upon the old, green-covered lounge. She sees little Bess and Ted in their night-gowns scampering up the closed-in stairway to their beds. Ah, she is not there to give them their good-night kiss when they have repeated their “Now I lay me down to sleep.� She sees her father rise, yawning, and step heavily across the room to the old wooden clock in its niche in the wall, and she can even hear the creaking of the iron weights as he winds the clock for the night. She sees her own little bed with its high posts and white valances. She closes her eyes tightly to shut out the vision and the tears that stand ready to fall. Then she hears her father call, “Come, Tom, you sleepy lubber! Get you up and off to bed!� She knows how Tom will stagger to his feet and rub his leaden eyelids, and start in the wrong direction. Dear lad! It is harder to think of him than all the rest. But she has had her wish. She is in the great city, and they—Tom, Bess, father—are there at home where the old life will go on day by day, and she in this new life must be brave and—grateful.
CHAPTER III
THE NEW ACQUAINTANCE
“I have succeeded in becoming acquainted with the lady in black,� remarked Elinor Wylie, a few days subsequent to the date of the beginning of this story, as, with her husband, she came slowly up from the dining-room and entered their private apartment. “Did I tell you?�
“No, I think not. Do you find her as interesting as fancy painted her?� drawled Mr. Wylie languidly.
“Yes, more so. At least, I find her very refined and cultured. She has surely been in better circumstances.�
“Ah, the pity of it, in this world of ours!� replied Mr. Wylie, throwing himself into a luxurious armchair and shaking his head expressively. “It is the story common to the lives of too many Americans. One day we’re dining at Delmonico’s, the next, starving in a hovel. Ah, seductive, evanescent, elusive Fortune, why do we trifle with you? To me the pathos of life is epitomized in the words, ‘She has seen better days.’�