The Dark Star

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.