Читать книгу Zula - H. Esselstyn Lindley - Страница 4

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In the afternoon June sought her brother, and seating herself on his knee urged him to go with her and help her find the little girl, and get her out of the station.

“Oh, you little, soft-hearted kitten,” said Scott, “we cannot look after all the beggars, and we could not get her out until morning if we were to try, and, besides, mother says she needs a lesson, and, last of all, I cannot spend the time.”

“But only think if I were shut up and had to stay in the dark all night, why, I should die from fright.”

“But you say she said she was not afraid, so it cannot hurt her.”

“Yes; she said she was not afraid, but I guess she said so because she knew she must go, and when the policeman told her so, I think she said it to show him how brave she could be. You should have seen how sweetly she looked at me when I spoke kindly to her, and when the policeman spoke crossly to her, mercy! How black her eyes did look, and her pretty lip curled up just this way.”

11

Here June put up her red lips in the sauciest way imaginable.

“What! like that,” said Scott, “she must have been a terribly impudent piece of humanity; that is a wonderfully saucy looking mouth. I guess she does not deserve any pity.”

“Oh, well, that was when the policeman spoke cross to her. When I spoke to her she looked like this,” said June, drawing her mouth down in the most pitiful manner.

“Oh, that alters the case; but now you see it will not do any good to talk about it, and if you will just run away and let me have the library to myself a couple of hours, I will promise to take you out riding in the morning, and I will step into court and bail her out, providing she promises to be good in the future.”

It was enough. Scott had promised and she knew he would go.

“Thank you, Scott,” she said, “but I wish it were now, so that the poor little girl would not have to stay alone to-night.”

“We cannot help it, June; there is no way that we can do anything for her to-day, so let that satisfy you.”

“Very well,” said June, as she left the room, “I will wait.”

Mrs. Wilmer doubtless would have objected to any intercession whatever on the part of her son in regard to the little culprit, but June knew that her father would not, and she was sure that Scott would do just what was right, so she said nothing to her mother on the subject. Young though she was, she knew her 12 mother’s peculiarities, and she had learned that in order to avoid all opposition or argument, the safest way was to appeal to Scott or her father. She had not the slightest idea of showing any disrespect to her mother’s wishes or judgment, but it seemed so natural for her mother to object to everything that June proposed, because she said that June was so apt to overlook everything like caste, and so much depended on that. June never had half the pride, she declared, that should belong to the Wilmers, neither had June’s father, and she was just like him, Mrs. Wilmer thought, so when June appealed to her father, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to say:

“Oh, don’t bother me, little one; go ask Scott.”

In this way she had grown into the habit of going to Scott with all her troubles and wishes.

“I mean to retire real early to-night,” she said to Scott.

“Why?” he asked.

“So that I can be up and take breakfast with you; then you will be sure to go early to find the little girl.”

June was as good as her word, for when Scott entered the breakfast room she was there with her toilet complete, and the thought entered Scott’s mind that if June was a little fly-away there was business about her, that when she set out to do a thing she could make some sacrifice to do it.

“Is it not a lovely morning?” said June, as Scott lifted her into the carriage. “Please hurry and get the poor little girl out of the dark.”

13

“She is no doubt at the police court ere this,” said Scott.

“Why, I don’t see why she should be taken to two horrid places to be locked up.”

“She will not be locked up there, she will have her trial, and if she has no friends to pay her fine she will be sent to the reform school.”

“Oh, how dreadful! But you don’t seem to feel very sorry, Scott. Just think of it if it were me?”

“But you see, it is not my sister,” said Scott.

“But she may be somebody’s sister.”

“Very true, and if she is that somebody is the one to feel badly over it, is he not?”

“Yes, but then perhaps her brother doesn’t know it, and some one who does should help her, don’t you think so?”

“Yes, we should help each other as much as we can in this world, but it is more than likely that the little girl you have taken such an interest in will do the same wicked act again.”

“Well, she will be happy once, anyway.”

“That depends on whether she promises not to repeat the offense.”

They reached the station. Scott entered, and there among the low and degraded of the city sat the young culprit. Her black hair dropping down over her forehead made the dusky face, which was slightly pale, look almost wild, as the great black eyes wandered over the countenances around her. There was no fear, but as she turned her eyes toward the judge it seemed to Scott that a look of injured pride, so deep that scorn, hatred 14 and intense mortification, all were blended in that one glance. She cast her eyes full upon Scott’s face. As he approached her a short, sharp cry escaped her lips. He touched her lightly on the shoulder and said:

“Little girl, do you not wish to go home?”

“I can’t,” she said, looking almost fiercely at the judge. “I can’t go home. I have got to go to—to—I don’t know where.”

Scott stepped up to the judge, and after a few moments’ conversation left the room, ordering her to follow him. He placed her in the close carriage, and, shutting the door, said:

“Now, June, you must finish the business yourself.”

June moved a slight distance as the rim of the child’s old dusty straw hat came in contact with the bright little daisies of her own, and though her heart was filled with pity she could not prevent the feeling of disgust as she looked at the child’s dirty and somewhat torn garments, but when she looked into the great black eyes and they softened under her words of kindness, she could scarcely keep back the tears, for June’s heart was wonderfully tender, and she could not look unmoved on suffering humanity.

The girl settled back on the soft cushions of the carriage, and looking out of the window the great tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.

“What is your name?” June asked.

“Zula,” she answered in a choked voice.

“What makes you cry? Are you not glad to get out of that horrid place?”

“Oh, yes, but it makes me cry to think.”

15

“Well, then, don’t think,” June said, with a merry little laugh, “and be happy because you are free again. And now tell me what made you wicked?”

Zula brushed the tears away with her little brown hand, and a look full of wonder passed over her face as she asked:

“Was I wicked? What do you mean?”

“Why, do you not know how wicked you were to steal, or to try to?”

“Why, no! Meg always tells me to steal anything I can get, and she will beat me now if I go home without anything, and after I have been gone all night, too.”

“Why, how terrible. Let me give you some money,” June said, taking from her little pearl purse a piece of silver, “you can give her that.”

“I thank you,” she said. “I will tell her that I stole it, and I could not get a chance till this morning.”

“Oh, no, do not tell her that, be sure you do not; why it’s just as wicked to tell a falsehood as it is to steal, and both are, oh, awfully wicked! Does not your mama ever tell you how wrong it is to do so?”

“Why, no; she tells me to take all I can get.”

“Where shall we take you?” June asked, as the carriage turned into Woodward Avenue.

“To the end of this street, if you will, and then I’ll run home.”

“Were you afraid last night?” asked June, looking into Zula’s black eyes.

“Afraid?” she repeated, scornfully; “no, I wasn’t. I can be as ugly as any one if I try, no matter where I go.”

16

“Do you wish to be naughty?” June asked with a little shiver.

“I would rather be good, if folks would be good to me. I could be good, for any one like you, lady, but when they are so awful mean to me sometimes I think I could kill them. How can I be good when everybody is so cross to me? Mam scolds and beats me, and Crisp and everybody else is cross to me but you, and your brother. Oh, I could die for him; he was so kind to get me out of that place, and I’d—oh, I’d die for him!”

“He would not let you do that, and if you lived with me I would not scold you, neither would Scott, and papa—why, he’s too sick.”

“But your ma would,” Zula said, quickly.

“Well, mama lets me do about as I please, or as brother Scott says.”

Scott had remained a silent listener, though he had watched the changing countenance of the child before him, and as he turned his gaze at one time from the carriage window he saw the black eyes fastened upon him in such a searching way that he almost started. There certainly was a significance in the look, and though Scott Wilmer was counted one of the most discerning, he could not determine the exact nature of the gaze. Several times she turned with that same gaze and at last he asked:

“Well, little girl, what do you think of me, do I look very cross?”

“Oh, no, sir, you are so kind that I would give my life for you,” she answered, with a burning light in the great black eyes.

17

Scott smiled and said:

“That is a great gift, and the last in the world that anyone would part with. Why do you think you would give your life?”

“’Cause it’s true, and I hain’t got anything else to give. Mam don’t let me keep anything I steal, but I did get one thing that I’ve had this good while, and she don’t know I’ve got it, ’cause I kept it hid. I’ll give it to you,” she said, drawing a beautiful little pearl handled revolver from her pocket. “Crisp showed me how to shoot with his, and when I get out alone I use this.”

June drew back and grew pale with fright.

“Oh, mercy,” she said, “are you not afraid?”

“Why, no; it can’t shoot unless I shoot it. Why, I can pop a squirrel’s head off the first time I try.”

“What, such a little thing as you? Why, I never saw a little girl that could shoot.”

“Oh, I have,” said Zula, with a toss of her head, at the same time placing her finger on the hammer of the pistol.

“Please put it away,” June said. “It frightens me to see you handle it.”

Zula dropped the pistol carelessly while Scott looked at her in amazement.

“I want you to promise me,” said June, “that you will never steal again, or tell a wrong story.”

“How can I promise that when mam beats me if I don’t steal.”

“Well, it’s wicked, and God don’t like little girls who 18 do such things; and if you don’t stop it you will be punished terribly some time.”

“Oh, I don’t care. I can’t get a worse beating than I get almost every day, no matter where I go.”

They had now reached the city limit.

“Which way?” called out the driver.

“I will get out here, if you please,” said Zula, in answer to the question.

“Where do you live?” Scott asked.

“Please, I don’t want you to know,” she answered, looking at him and scanning closely every feature. “I can’t tell you how much I thank you. I shall never see you again, but if I should, and you wanted me to die for you, I would. Zula will never forget you—will always remember you both.”

She caught a hand of each, and kissing them fervently, dropped from the carriage steps with the agility of a young fawn. She stopped for a moment as she touched the ground with her bare, brown feet, moved her hand in a graceful way above her head, and with repeated good byes to each, tripped lightly over the soft grass away from the city.