It has made me feel better to write to you. I hope you will not think
it a presumption.
And now I shall say thank you for your great kindness to me in your
studio on that most frightful night of my life. It is one of those
things that a girl can never, never forget--your aid in my hour of
need. Through all my shame and distress it was your help that
sustained me; for I was so stunned by my disgrace that I even forgot
God himself.
But I will prove that I am thankful to Him, and worthy of your
goodness to me; I will profit by this dreadful humiliation and
devote my life to a more worthy and lofty purpose than merely getting
married just because a man asked me so persistently and I was too
young and ignorant to continue saying no! Also, I did want to study
art. How stupid, how immoral I was!
And now nobody would ever want to marry me again after this--and also
it's against the law, I imagine. But I don't care; I never, never
desire to marry another man. All I want is to learn how to support
myself by art; and some day perhaps I shall forget what has happened
to me and perhaps find a little pleasure in life when I am very old.
With every wish and prayer for your happiness and success in this
world of sorrow, believe me your grateful friend, Rue Carew.
* * * * *
Every naïve and laboured line of the stilted letter touched and amused
and also flattered Neeland; for no young man is entirely insensible to
a young girl's gratitude. An agreeable warmth suffused him; it pleased
him to remember that he had been associated in the moral and social
rehabilitation of Rue Carew.
He meant to write her some kind, encouraging advice; he had every
intention of answering her letter. But in New York young men are very
busy; or think they are. For youth days dawn and vanish in the space
of a fire-fly's lingering flash; and the moments swarm by like a
flight of distracted golden butterflies; and a young man is ever at
their heels in breathless chase with as much chance of catching up
with the elusive moment as a squirrel has of outstripping the wheel in
which he whirls.
So he neglected to reply--waited a little too long. Because, while her
childish letter still remained unanswered, came a note from the
Princess Mistchenka, enclosing a tremulous line from Rue: * * * * * Mon cher James: Doubtless you have already heard of the sad death of Ruhannah's
parents--within a few hours of each other--both stricken with
pneumonia within the same week. The local minister cabled her as Mrs.
Brandes in my care. Then he wrote to the child; the letter has just
arrived.