The Crimson Thread: An Adventure Story for Girls

  CHAPTER IV THE PICTURE GIRL

  Little dreaming of the stirring events that awaited her, and without theslightest anticipation of the new mystery and unusual responsibilitiesthat were crowding in upon her that day, Lucile took her Monday morningtrain with the quiet composure of one who, having enjoyed a perfectSunday of rest, looks forward with enthusiasm to a day of interestingservice.

  The supreme moment of that day arrived in a rather unusual place at atime when the clock's hands were nearing the hour of 1:00. Before that,however, there came hours of the usual toil which many would calldrudgery. From eight-thirty until ten there were few customers. Everymoment was taken up. Two truckloads of books had come down from theapparently inexhaustable storerooms above. These must be placed on thetables. Tables must be dusted; cash-books filled with blanks for the day;books out of place must be returned to the proper section.

  As Lucile came and went in the performance of her allotted tasks, she wasmore and more impressed with what Laurie had said about this group ofloyal friends, this company of sales-people who were so much like a verylarge family.

  "They are all my friends, almost my kinsfolk," she told herself with alittle gulp of joy that was very near to tears.

  And so they were. Even outside her little corner they greeted her with acomradely smile. There was the pleasing lady who sold new fiction, andthe tumbled haired lady who sold travel books and had sold books instores from coast to coast. In the first alcove was the worried lady whohandled standard sets; in the second was the dignified one who murmuredin low, church-like tones of prayer books and rosaries; while in thefarthest, deepest alcove of all was dear old Morrison, the young-old manwith premature gray hair and a stoop. But his lustrous eyes were lightedwith an earnestness such as one seldom looks into, and he had an air ofpoise and refinement and a smile of perfect fellowship. He sold finebindings, and knew them well. Besides that, he could tell you the nameand publishers of every book for serious minded people published sincethe days of Ben Franklin.

  Working among such people as these, and in spite of all her strenuoushours of labor, Lucile dreaded the coming of Christmas Eve when she mustbid them all farewell and return to her studies. Never before had shebeen so tempted to relinquish her cherished hope of university trainingand to settle down to work among a host of interesting and loyal friends.

  So the forenoon wore away, and with the passing of each hour the greatand startling event of that day came sixty minutes nearer.

  The noon hour at last arrived. Having hastily eaten her paper-bag lunch,Lucile hurried from the store. There was yet three-quarters of an hour tospend. She would spend the time sauntering through a place of greatenchantment, the Art Museum.

  Five minutes of battling with wind and intense cold, and she was there.Racing up the stone steps, she paused an instant for breath. Then sheentered and hurried up the broad marble stairway. At last she came to aplace where a great circular leather cushioned seat in the center of aroom offered opportunity for perfect repose. There she sank down, to hideher eyes with her hands until the frost and the glare of snow had leftthem, then to open them slowly and to squint away contentedly toward thewall which lay before her.

  Before her, and a little to the left, was a painting from Ireland, thework of a great master. It was a simple thing in a way, a boy clad inhumble garb shoveling snow, and a girl with a shawl thrown over hershoulders, coming down the well cleaned path. Very simple people these,but happy and kind. There were sparrows perched along the path. A veryhumble theme, but such masses of wonderful color! Had she not seen it,Lucile would not have believed that artists could have achieved suchperfection.

  To the left was an equally lovely picture; dawn on the heather, the sunrising from the dripping dewy green and a girl reaper going to her toilwith the song of a lark on her lips and joy in her eye.

  These were the pictures that brought rest and joy to Lucile's half hourof leisure and helped prepare her for events that cast no shadow beforethem.

  She had descended the marble stairs and was about to leave the buildingwhen a picture arrested her attention; a living picture of a girl. Andsuch a girl as she was! A supple grace to her waist and shoulders, aproper curve at the ankles, and a face--such a face! Cheeks aglow withthe color the frosty out-of-doors had given them. Cheeks offset by dark,deep-set eyes, made darker still by eyelashes that were like hemlocks ina snow covered valley, and a smooth oval forehead backed by a wealth ofshort, wavy hair. This was the picture; only faintly sketched, for behindall this beauty there was a certain strength of character, a force ofwill that seemed a slumbering fire gleaming from her eyes. In thebackground were people and marble pillars. The girl had just entered theMuseum and, uncertain of her way, stood irresolute.

  "She's from the country," Lucile whispered to herself. "Her clothes showthat. But how startling, how unusual, how--how striking she is!

  "She's like the pictures I've been seeing, they were unusual andpriceless. She is the same. And yet," a feeling of fear and sadness sweptover her, "those priceless pictures are carefully guarded night and day.I wonder if she is? She seems alone. It's not to be wondered at, theirguarding those pictures. Who would not like one for his room? Who wouldnot love to open his eyes each morning upon the girl in the 'Song of theLark'? But they'd wish to possess that girl, too. A father, a mother,sister, brother, would be proud to possess her, to look at her everymorning, a--anyone would. And yet, she's not--"

  Her meditations were cut short by sight of a figure standing not ten feetfrom her; a tall, slim, young man whose features might have been carvedfrom marble, and in whose eyes Lucile had surprised a steely glance suchas she had once caught in the beady eye of a down-swooping hawk.

  And then, as if enacting her part in a play, the girl of this livingpicture suddenly wavered where she stood. Her face went white, then witha little, wavering cry, she crumpled in a heap on the marble floor.

  Lucile could have sworn the girl was alone and uncertain of her nextmove. She understood what had happened. Having traveled far in theintense cold, the girl had been overcome by the heavy warmth of themuseum and had fainted. The thing that happened next puzzled Lucilebeyond belief.

  After ten seconds of motionless panic, a half score of people sprang toher assistance. But the young man, he of the marble features and steelyeye, was first up.

  "It's all right," he was saying in a quiet, even tone, "she's my sister.I'll take care of her. We have a car outside."

  Lifting the unconscious girl in his arms, he started for the door.

  "It's not all right! It's not all right!" Lucile fairly shrieked thewords.

  To her vast astonishment, the next moment she was gripping a burly guardby the arm and saying in a voice hoarse with emotion:

  "It's not all right! He's not her brother. He--he's stealing her! Stopthem!"

  To her further astonishment, the guard believed her. With three strideshe reached the door and blocked it.

  "Here! Here!" he said in the tone of one who is accustomed to be obeyed."It won't do. You can't take her out like that."

  "Oh, all right," there was a note of forced indifference in the youngman's voice, but there was murder in his cold, hard eyes. "All right, ifyou know so much. Fetch some water and get her out of it. She'll tell youI'm her brother. But be quick about it. You're a beef-head for ordering agentleman about."

  Lucile's heart went to the bottom of her shoes. What was this? Had heremotions led her astray? Was he indeed the girl's brother? It would seemso, else why would he consent so readily to the delay, which must meanproof one way or another? She was soon to see. Tremblingly, she awaitedthe outcome. Dropping upon the marble floor, she pillowed the girl's headin her lap and brushing away the hair from the face, caressed the coldforehead with a soft hand.

  When the water had been brought Lucile dampened her handkerchief and laidit icy cold on the other's forehead. Almost instantly the eyes opened andthe girl, having dragged herself to a s
itting position, stared about themuseum.

  "Wha--where am I?" she asked. "What has happened?"

  "You're in the Art Museum. You fainted."

  "Faint--fainted!" There was terror in her eyes.

  "It was the cold. It's nothing, really nothing." Lucile put a steadyingarm about her. "You'll be quite all right in a moment."

  "Now where is that brother of hers?" grumbled the guard. "He's nowhere tobe seen! He's gone!"

  "Gone?" echoed Lucile.

  "Brother?" said the girl in astonishment. "I have no brother. I amalone."

  Such a wave of feeling swept over Lucile as made her sick and faint. Shehad been right, dreadfully right. She had saved this girl, this wonderfulcreature, from--she dared not think from what.

  For a moment, rocked by her emotions, she sat there in silence. At last,with a supreme effort, she dragged herself to her feet.

  "You look the worst of the two," said the guard, giving her a keenglance.

  "I'm all right," she protested stoutly.

  To the girl, whom she had assisted to her feet, she said, "You may comewith me if you wish. Our store's only two blocks away. There's a restroom. You'll be all right there until you sort of get your bearings.Perhaps I can help you."

  "I'd--I'd be glad to," said the other, clinging to her impulsively.

  So they left the museum together. Though she kept a sharp watch to rightand left, Lucile caught no sign of the volunteer brother, but sheshivered once or twice at the very thought of him.

  * * * * * * * *

  It was a very much perplexed Lucile who curled up in her big chair thatnight for a few moments of quiet thought before retiring.

  A new mystery had been added to her already well filled list of strangedoings. "First," she said to herself, telling them off like beads on arosary, "there comes the beautiful mystery woman and the cape she leftbehind; then Laurie Seymour and the vanishing author; then the crimsonthread; and now this girl."

  As she whispered this last she nodded toward the bed. There, lyingwrapped in slumber, was the beautiful girl she had saved in the museum.

  "She's even more beautiful in sleep than when awake," Lucile murmured."And such a strange creature! She hasn't told me a thing."

  The last statement was entirely true. Any notion Lucile had of the girl,any guess at her hidden secrets, was based on observation and conjecturealone. Not one word regarding them had escaped the strange girl's lips.

  Having accompanied Lucile to the store, she had lain upon a couch in the"quiet room" for three hours. Whenever Lucile had stolen a moment fromwork to look in upon her, the girl had appeared to be day-dreaming. Farfrom being worried about events of the past or the immediate future, shehad appeared to be enjoying the recalling of an interesting adventure oranticipating one.

  At five she had risen from the cot and, having brushed her hair andarranged her clothing, had insisted upon helping her new-found friend toput her tables to rights. She had accepted Lucile's invitation to passthe night with her with the nonchalance of one who is offered thiscourtesy from a long-time friend.

  Innocent of one scrap of baggage, in the same manner she had acceptedLucile's offer of a dream robe.

  In only one respect had she showed her independence. Having produced adollar bill from somewhere on her person, she had insisted on paying forher own frugal lunch.

  "Her clothes are the strangest of all," Lucile whispered to herself."When a girl comes upon a run of hard luck, she's likely to try to keepup an appearance even though she is shabby underneath. But look at her; acountrified suit of shiny blue serge, two years behind the times, and herundergarments are new and of the finest silk, up to the minute, too. Howis one to explain that?"

  She was not disturbed in the least about the girl's morals. She was assweet and clean as a fresh blooming rose. Lucile would have sworn tothat. With the lights turned out, and with the tingling winter airentering the open window, before retiring the girl had joined Lucile inthe nightly "setting up" exercises and had appeared to enjoy them, too.

  The strange girl's skin was like the finest satin. Her lines wereperfect, her muscles superb. Through lack of knowledge of the exercises,she often blundered. But she could whirl more quickly, leap higher andswing about more gracefully than Lucile, who had never failed to throwher whole heart into her gym work.

  "All that," Lucile murmured as she drew off her bathrobe preparatory toslipping beneath the covers, "all that, and she has not told me one wordabout herself. For a country girl she certainly has her full supply ofreserve. To-morrow I am to try to get work for her as a wrapper. No doubtI can do it. And then?"

  She thought about the future for a moment. She was alone this year. Ifyou have read our book, "The Cruise of the O'Moo," you will remember thatwhile living in the yacht in dry dock she had two companions--Florenceand Marion. Florence had gone home. Marion was in Alaska. Now Lucile wasalone. She would welcome a friend and, unless she had misread hercharacter, this girl had the qualities of a steadfast and loyal pal.

  "But her past?" Lucile whispered as she placed her slippers beneath thebed and drew back the covers. "Ah well, we shall see."

  Once during the night she was wakened by the girl, who was evidentlytalking in her sleep.

  "Don't let them. Don't! Don't!" she all but screamed as she threw out herarms for protection from some dream foe.

  Putting her arms about her, Lucile held her tight until the dream hadpassed and she fell back once more into peaceful slumber.