In The Bishop's Carriage [69]
heard about Beryl Blackburn. Well--she's--she's just Beryl, you know. She wasn't made to live any different. Some people steal and some drink and some gamble and some . . . Well, Beryl belongs to the last class. She doesn't pretend to be better than she is. And, just between you and me, Bishop, I've more respect for a girl of that kind than for Grace Weston, whose husband is my leading man, you know. Why, she pulls the wool over his eyes and makes him the laughing-stock of the company. I can't stand her any more than I can Marie Avon, who's never without two strings--"
All at once I stopped. But wasn't it like me to spoil it all by bubbling over? I tell you, Maggie, too much truth isn't good for the Bishop's set;--they don't know how to digest it.
I was afraid that I'd lost him, for he spoke with a stately little primness as the carriage just then came to a stop; I had been so interested talking that I hadn't noticed where we were driving.
"Ah, here we are!" he said. "I must ask you to excuse me, Miss--ah, Mrs.--that is--there's a public meeting of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children this afternoon that I must attend. Good-by, then--"
"Oh, are you bound for the Cruelty, too?" I asked. "Why, so am I. And--yes--yes--that's the Cruelty!"
The Cruelty stands just where it did, Mag, when you and I first saw it; most things do in Philadelphia, you know. There's the same prim, official straight up-and-downness about the brick front. The steps don't look so steep now and the building's not so high, perhaps because of a skyscraper or two that've gone up since. But it chills your blood, Maggie darlin', just as it always did, to think what it stands for. Not man's inhumanity to man, but women's cruelty to children! Maggie, think of it, if you can, as though this were the first time you'd heard of such a thing! Would you believe it?
I waked from that to find myself marching up the stairs behind the Bishop's rigid little back. Oh, it was stiff and uncompromising! Beryl Blackburn did that for me. Poor, pretty, pagan Beryl!
My coming with the Bishop--we seemed to come together, anyway--made the people think he'd brought me, so I must be just all right. I had the man bring in the toys I'd got out in the carriage, and I handed them over to the matron, saying:
"They're for the children. I want them to have them all and now, please, to do whatever they want with them. There'll always be others. I'm going to send them right along, if you'll let me, so that those who leave can take something of their very own with them--something that never belonged to anybody else but just themselves, you understand. It's terrible, don't you know, to be a deserted child or a tortured child or a crippled child and have nothing to do but sit up in that bare, clean little room upstairs with a lot of other strangelings--and just think on the cruelty that's brought you here and the cruelty you may get into when you leave here. If I'd had a doll--if Mag had only had a set of dishes or a little tin kitchen--if the boy with the gouged eye could have had a set of tools--oh, can't you understand--"
I became conscious then that the matron--a new one, Mag, ours is gone--was staring at me, and that the people stood around listening as though I'd gone mad.
Who came to my rescue? Why, the Bishop, like the manly little fellow he is. He forgave me even Beryl in that moment.
"It's Nance Olden, ladies," he said, with a dignified little wave of his hand that served for an introduction. "She begins her Philadelphia engagement to-night in And the Greatest of These."
Oh, I'm used to it now, Maggie, but I do like it. All the lady-swells buzzed about me, and there Nance stood preening herself and crowing softly till--till from among the bunch of millinery one of them stepped up to me. She had a big smooth face with plenty of chins. Her hair was white and her nose was curved and she rustled in silk and--
It was Mrs. Dowager Diamonds, alias Henrietta, alias Mrs. Edward Ramsay!
"Clever! My,
All at once I stopped. But wasn't it like me to spoil it all by bubbling over? I tell you, Maggie, too much truth isn't good for the Bishop's set;--they don't know how to digest it.
I was afraid that I'd lost him, for he spoke with a stately little primness as the carriage just then came to a stop; I had been so interested talking that I hadn't noticed where we were driving.
"Ah, here we are!" he said. "I must ask you to excuse me, Miss--ah, Mrs.--that is--there's a public meeting of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children this afternoon that I must attend. Good-by, then--"
"Oh, are you bound for the Cruelty, too?" I asked. "Why, so am I. And--yes--yes--that's the Cruelty!"
The Cruelty stands just where it did, Mag, when you and I first saw it; most things do in Philadelphia, you know. There's the same prim, official straight up-and-downness about the brick front. The steps don't look so steep now and the building's not so high, perhaps because of a skyscraper or two that've gone up since. But it chills your blood, Maggie darlin', just as it always did, to think what it stands for. Not man's inhumanity to man, but women's cruelty to children! Maggie, think of it, if you can, as though this were the first time you'd heard of such a thing! Would you believe it?
I waked from that to find myself marching up the stairs behind the Bishop's rigid little back. Oh, it was stiff and uncompromising! Beryl Blackburn did that for me. Poor, pretty, pagan Beryl!
My coming with the Bishop--we seemed to come together, anyway--made the people think he'd brought me, so I must be just all right. I had the man bring in the toys I'd got out in the carriage, and I handed them over to the matron, saying:
"They're for the children. I want them to have them all and now, please, to do whatever they want with them. There'll always be others. I'm going to send them right along, if you'll let me, so that those who leave can take something of their very own with them--something that never belonged to anybody else but just themselves, you understand. It's terrible, don't you know, to be a deserted child or a tortured child or a crippled child and have nothing to do but sit up in that bare, clean little room upstairs with a lot of other strangelings--and just think on the cruelty that's brought you here and the cruelty you may get into when you leave here. If I'd had a doll--if Mag had only had a set of dishes or a little tin kitchen--if the boy with the gouged eye could have had a set of tools--oh, can't you understand--"
I became conscious then that the matron--a new one, Mag, ours is gone--was staring at me, and that the people stood around listening as though I'd gone mad.
Who came to my rescue? Why, the Bishop, like the manly little fellow he is. He forgave me even Beryl in that moment.
"It's Nance Olden, ladies," he said, with a dignified little wave of his hand that served for an introduction. "She begins her Philadelphia engagement to-night in And the Greatest of These."
Oh, I'm used to it now, Maggie, but I do like it. All the lady-swells buzzed about me, and there Nance stood preening herself and crowing softly till--till from among the bunch of millinery one of them stepped up to me. She had a big smooth face with plenty of chins. Her hair was white and her nose was curved and she rustled in silk and--
It was Mrs. Dowager Diamonds, alias Henrietta, alias Mrs. Edward Ramsay!
"Clever! My,