“The Italian woman who cleans this place came in this morning with her mop and pail, and Carlotta commenced chattering with her at once, and the woman laughed, so that I asked her what she was saying. She told me that Carlotta said she looked like her mother, and that she had the same kind of mop and pail. Of course, judging from the appearance and expensive clothing of the child, she thought it was absurd; but I got her to question Carlotta for me, and she persisted in her story, and described their home, which seems to consist of two overcrowded rooms on Mulberry Street.” She paused, and Tom looked at her with no trace of embarrassment.
“Well, what of it?” he asked, defiantly. “The child was telling the truth, and there is no reason to punish her.”
“Punish her!” exclaimed Elizabeth, taken aback. “It is not a question of what she has said or done; but of your conduct. Rich Italians do not live in two rooms on Mulberry Street, and you have deceived me and humiliated me by using this means to give me money.”
“Nothing of the sort,” he replied. “I haven’t deceived you; although I will admit that you deceived yourself, and I did not set you right. The child’s father was one of my mother’s gardeners in Florence, and when he decided to bring his large family over here, she gave him a letter to me. He came to my office the morning after we dined together, and I went to see his family, and fell in love with Carlotta at once. The father was delighted to have her portrait painted, and I thought it would be better to get fresh clothes for such an important occasion.”
“But immigrants are not making advance payments which are more than I should have charged for a half-dozen portraits, and you have done this simply to cloak an advance of money to me,” she said, indignantly. “I suppose that you meant it in kindness, but you have put me under an obligation which I hate and which it will take me years to repay.”
“There is no question of obligation,” he replied, gently. “If I, as the child’s foster father, wish a portrait of her, it is my own business whom I get to paint it, and how much I pay for it. I have made arrangements to care for Carlotta, and I wish you to finish the portrait for me, so that I may have something to remember her and this happy time by, when she grows up and leaves me.”
“Oh, Tom, you must not take her away from me!” exclaimed Elizabeth, in dismay. “If you will let me finish this portrait and exhibit it, I am sure that it will bring me other orders, and then I can repay you and keep her with me.”
“Do what? Keep the child with you?” asked Tom, in amazement.
“Yes, if you will help that much,” she faltered. “I have thought it all out since the woman translated for me. I know that I can get other orders from this portrait, and I will be able to keep her, if the parents will permit it, and they have so many children that I am sure they will. Oh, Tom, it has been so lonely here, and now I can’t let you come any more—and I want her so!” She covered her face with her hands, and, although Tom was not a man to be amused by a woman’s tears, he smiled and winked solemnly at the frightened looking child, before he took them and held them in his own.
“Elizabeth Thornton,” he said, seriously, “I will not relinquish my claim on Carlotta, and if you want her, you must take me, too. It is time to stop this foolishness about ‘life work,’ and to remember that you are a woman, with all the weaknesses of the sex, which we condone, and with all of its sweetness, which we love.”