It was a mean little room, as Mrs. Wylie had said, only lighted by one narrow window, but the taste of its simple furnishing accorded with the faces of mother and child. Mrs. Lucien’s was one of those rare faces seen only occasionally among the masses, purely oval, with soft outlines and exquisite delicacy of expression. The eyes seemed to index the soul in their spirituality and clearness. It seemed impossible to think of guile or hypocrisy finding lodgment in the heart of a woman with such a face. The tinge of melancholy resting upon it only added to its attractiveness.
The child was the counterpart of the mother, even to the soulful eyes and mobile lips. It was evident, as Mrs. Wylie had observed, that Mrs. Lucien had seen better days. There was an unmistakable air of culture and refinement in her manner, a dignity and grace of carriage that could come only with one to the manner born. She appeared to be a stranger in Forest City and was markedly uncommunicative as to her past life and history in her intercourse with the few who sought further acquaintance with her.
Mrs. St. John, on the second floor, had been attracted by her face, and tried, through the child, to know more of her, but succeeded illy. The child was as reserved as the mother, or had been kept in ignorance of its history. One thing she noticed, it never spoke of its father, and Mrs. St. John discreetly withdrew, and refrained from further investigation.
“There must be something wrong when people are so much afraid to let you know anything of them,� she reflected. She could not afford to risk her own reputation by becoming associated with her.
Mrs. Wylie, too secure in worldly caste to be deterred by such considerations, had a new interest, and would leave no means untried to learn more of her protege.
She found she had an endless amount of sewing to be done, and made many calls with reference to it, as well as necessitating much going to and from her own rooms by Mrs. Lucien. And in all of those interviews the little woman chatted away as blithely as though her caller were an intimate friend instead of a stranger sewing woman, this being characteristic of Elinor Wylie, and the outgrowth of her kindness of heart, which neither fashion nor society, conventionality nor worldliness could repress.
Mr. Wylie joked her daily upon her enthusiasm, which increased with acquaintance.
“She is entirely lovable, Horace, and entirely refined and cultured. I have not her superior in my whole circle of acquaintances,� she reiterated one night, when he had chidden her for spending so much of her time with Mrs. Lucien. “If she were not so proud I should have gotten her out of that dark little jail of a room before now, but I dare not openly offer her charity. But, Horace, I have made a discovery. She was formerly from New York, and she came here to be among strangers. I suspect—�
“Well, what do you suspect?� said her husband, as she hesitated in her speech.
“Why—I half suspect she has run away from her husband,� admitted Mrs. Wylie reluctantly, hastening to add, “I am quite sure she had a good reason and that no blame can attach to her, whatever the cause.�