THE HEIRESS BECOMES A SEAMSTRESS.
Poor Mona Montague was almost heartbroken over the sudden death of her
uncle. She could not be reconciled to her great loss, and grieved so
bitterly and continuously that her health began to be affected, and she
lost all her lovely color and became thin and weak.
With the exception of the housekeeper and servants, Mr. Dinsmore had been
her sole companion for many years, and they had been all in all to each
other, so that this loss was a terrible blow to her.
Mona had always been an especially bright child unusually mature for her
years, and probably her natural precociousness had been increased by
having had so much of the companionship of her uncle. He had always
interested himself in all her pleasures and made a confidante of her in
all things which he thought she could comprehend; so in this way she had
become very thoughtful for others, while it had also served to establish
a very tender comradeship between them.
He had gratified her every wish whenever he could consistently do so, and
had taken care that she should have the best of advantages and the most
competent teachers. His home, also, had been filled with everything
entertaining and instructive, and thus to her it had been rendered the
dearest and happiest place in the world.
But the charm and center of attraction were gone, now that he had
been laid away, and, though she believed that his death had left her
independently rich, the knowledge gave her no pleasure--in fact, she
scarcely gave the subject a thought, except when it was forced upon her.
A fortnight had elapsed since Mr. Dinsmore died, and everything had moved
on as usual in his elegant home, while Mrs. Marston, the housekeeper,
strove in every way to comfort Mona and to keep her mind occupied so that
her thoughts would not long dwell upon her bereavement.
But the young girl's condition troubled her greatly. She was listless
and languid; she lost her appetite, and had seasons of depression and
outbursts of sorrow that were really alarming.
Susie Leades came to her almost every day and tried to cheer her. Mona
appreciated her kind efforts, and was somewhat comforted by them, while
she also had many letters of sympathy and condolence from her numerous
friends.
But to her great surprise Ray Palmer had never once come to inquire for
her; neither had he written her one word to tell her that he felt for her
in this bitter trial.
She was both grieved and hurt over his apparent indifference, especially
after the request he had made on the evening of their attendance at the
opera, and the many unmistakable signs of regard which he had betrayed
for her at that time.
She was brooding over this one afternoon when Mr. Graves, the lawyer and
her future guardian, was announced.
He looked serious and troubled; indeed, he was so unlike himself that
Mona observed it, and asked him if he was ill.
"No, Miss Mona, I am not really ill, but I am laboring under trouble
and anxiety enough to almost make me so," he responded, as he took her
extended hand and gazed down upon her own colorless face with a
sorrowful, wistful look.
"Trouble?" she repeated, with a quivering lip. "Oh, trouble is so much
harder to bear than illness."
"My poor child, your remark only makes my burden all the heavier," the
gentleman returned, in an unsteady voice. "Alas, my trouble is all on
your account, for I am the bearer of ill news for you."
"Ill news--to me?" exclaimed the young girl, in a wondering tone. "After
losing Uncle Walter, it does not seem as if _any_ trouble could move me;
_nothing_ can compare with that," she concluded, passionately.
"Very true; but there are other troubles in life besides death," said Mr.
Graves, gently; "such as--the loss of fortune, poverty--"
"Do you mean that I am to have no fortune--that I am to be poor?"
exclaimed Mona, astonished.
"Ah, I fear that it is so."
"How can that be possible? Uncle Walter was very rich, wasn't he? I
certainly understood you to say so."
"Yes, I did; and I find, on looking into his affairs, that he was worth
even more than I had previously supposed."
"Well, then, what can you mean? I am his only near relative, and you said
that I should inherit everything," Mona said with a perplexed look.
"I know I did, and I thought so at that time; but, Mona, I was waited
upon by a noted lawyer only a few days ago, and he claims the whole of
your uncle's great wealth for another."
"Why, who can it possibly be?" cried the girl in amazement.
"Your uncle's wife, or, I should say, his widow."
"My uncle's wife?" repeated Mona, with a dazed look "Uncle Walter had no
wife!"
"Are you sure?"
"Why, yes, of course. I have always lived with him, ever since I can
remember, and there has been no one else in the family except the
servants and the housekeeper. I am sure--I think--and yet--"
Mona abruptly paused as she remembered a remark which her uncle had made
to her on her eighteenth birthday. He had said: "You have taken the place
of the little girl who never lived to call me father, and--you have
helped me to bear other troubles also."
Could it be possible, she now asked herself, that her uncle had had
domestic troubles, that there had been a separation from his wife, and
that this had been a life-long sorrow to him?
She had always supposed that his wife was dead, for he would never
speak of her, nor allow Mona to ask him any questions. From her earliest
childhood she had somehow seemed to know that she must not refer in any
way to such a subject.
"Ah, I see that you are in some doubt about it," Mr. Graves observed.
"The matter stands thus, however: A woman, claiming to be Mrs. Walter
Dinsmore, has presented her claim to her husband's property. She proves
herself, beyond the possibility of doubt, to be what she pretends,
bringing her marriage certificate and other papers to substantiate her
title. She asserts that about a year after her marriage with Mr. Dinsmore
they had trouble--of what nature I do not know--and the feeling between
them was so irreconcilable they agreed to part, Mr. Dinsmore allowing
her a separate maintenance. They were living in San Francisco at the
time. There was no divorce, but they never met afterward, Mr. Dinsmore
coming East, while she remained in California. She says there was a
child--"
"Yes," Mona interposed. "Uncle Walter told me of the birth of a little
girl, but that she never lived to call him father."
"I wonder what he meant by that?" said Mr. Graves with a start; "that the
child came into the world lifeless? If such was the case, then your claim
to the estate is still good."
"I supposed from what he said that it was born lifeless; still his words
were somewhat ambiguous--even if she had lived several months, she might
not have lived long enough to call him father!"
"Well, the woman asserts that the infant lived for a few hours, and
brings the records to prove it, and claims that _she_ is Mr. Dinsmore's
only legitimate heir, through her child," Mr. Graves explained.
"And is she?--is that true?" Mona asked.
"Yes, the court will recognize her claim--to all appearance, it is
indisputable; and now I can understand what puzzled and troubled me when
Mr. Dinsmore was so helplessly ill," Mr. Graves said, reflectively. "You
doubtless remember how distressed he was when he tried to make me
understand something in connection with his will."
"Yes," said Mona with streaming eyes. "Oh, poor Uncle Walter!"
"Doubtless he knew that his wife was still living," Mr. Graves resumed,
"and that she would be likely to claim his property. He wanted _you_ to
have it--that I know--and he must have suffered untold anguish because he
could not make me understand that he wanted to have me insert something
in his will, which would provide against this woman's demands. Even if he
had been able to sign the document which I drew up, she could have broken
it, because she was not mentioned and remembered in it, and he knew this,
of course."
"Then she will have all--I am not to have anything?" said Mona
inquiringly, but without being able to realize, in the least, what
such utter destitution meant.
"My poor child, she utterly refuses to release a dollar of your uncle's
money to you. I have fought hard for you, Mona, for I could not bear to
come to you with this wretched story; but she is inexorable. She seems,
for some reason, to entertain a special spite--even hatred--against you,
and asserts, through her counsel--_I_ have not had the honor of meeting
this peculiar specimen of womanhood--that you shall either work or beg
for your bread; you shall have _nothing_ of what legally belongs to her."
"Then I am absolutely penniless!" said Mona, musingly. "I wonder if I can
make myself understand what that means! I have always had everything that
I wanted. I never asked for anything that Uncle Walter did not give me if
he could obtain it. I have had more money than I wanted to spend, and so
I have given a great deal away. It will seem _very_ strange to have an
empty purse. I wonder where I shall get my clothes, when what I have are
worn out. I wonder how I am to get what I shall need to _eat_--does it
cost very much to feed one person? Why, Mr. Graves!" putting her hand to
her head in a half-dazed way. "I _cannot_ make it seem _real_--it is like
some dreadful dream!"
"Mona, my dear child, do not talk like that," said the man, looking
deeply distressed, "for, somehow, I feel guilty, as if I were, in a
measure, responsible for this fresh calamity that has befallen you; and
yet I could not help it. If I had only _known_ that Mr. Dinsmore's wife
was living, I could have made the will all right. Ah! no, no! what am I
saying? Even if I _had_, he could not have signed it, for his strength
failed. Still, I know that he wanted you to have all, and it is not right
that this woman should get it from you."
"Must I go away from my home and from all these lovely things of which
Uncle Walter was so fond?" Mona asked, looking about the beautiful room
with inexpressible longing written on her young face. "Will she claim his
books and pictures, and even this dear chair, in which I loved to see him
sit, and which seems almost like a part of himself, now that he is gone?"
and unable to bear the thought of parting from these familiar objects,
around which clustered such precious associations, the stricken girl
bowed her face upon the arm of Mr. Dinsmore's chair, and burst into
a passion of tears.
"My dear girl, don't!" pleaded the tender-hearted lawyer, as he gently
stroked her rich, brown hair with one hand, and wiped the tears from his
own eyes with the other, "it almost breaks my heart to think of it, and I
promise that you shall at least have some of the treasures which you
prize so much. You shall not want for a home, either--you shall come to
me. Mr. Dinsmore was my dear and valued friend, and for his sake, as well
as your own, you shall never want for enough to supply your needs. I have
not great wealth, but what I have I will share with you."
Mona now lifted her head, and wiped her tears, while she struggled
bravely to regain her self-possession.
"You are very kind, Mr. Graves," she said, when she could speak, and with
a newly acquired dignity, at which her companion marveled, "and I am very
grateful to you for your sympathy and generosity; but I could never
become an object of charity to any one. If it is so ordered, that I am to
be bereft of the home and fortune which Uncle Walter wished me to have, I
must submit to it, and there will doubtless be some way provided to
enable me to live independently. It is all so new and so--so almost
incomprehensible, that, for the moment, I was overcome. I will try not to
be so weak and childish again; and now," pausing for a deep breath, "will
you please explain to me just my position? When must I go, and--and can I
take away the things that Uncle Walter has given to me from time to time?
The pictures in my own rooms were given to me on certain birthdays and
holidays; the piano he gave me new last Christmas, and I have a watch and
some valuable jewelry."
"Of course, you may keep all such things," Mr. Graves answered with
emotion, for it was inexpressively sad to have this girl so shorn of all
that had made life beautiful to her so many years, "unless," he added,
"it be the piano, and that you may have if there is any way to prove
that it was given to you. You are to have a week in which to make your
arrangements, and at the end of that time everything will pass into the
possession of madame."
"Only a week longer in my dear home!" broke from the quivering lips of
the stricken girl; "how can I bear it? Oh, Uncle Walter! how can I bear
to have strangers handle with careless touch the things that you and I
have loved so much? these dear books that we have read together--the
pictures that we selected and never tired of studying to find new points
for each other! Oh, every one is sacred to me!"
The strong man at her side was so moved by her grief that he was obliged
to rise and walk to a window to conceal his own emotion.
But after a little she controlled herself again, and discussed everything
with him in a grave, quiet, yet comprehensive way that made him sure she
would in time rise above her troubles and perhaps become all the stronger
in character for having been thus tried in the furnace of affliction.
He went every day after that to assist her in her arrangements for
leaving; helped her to pack the treasures she was to take away with her,
and to put in the nicest order everything she was to leave; for on this
point she was very particular. She had secretly resolved that her uncle's
discarded wife should have no fault to find with his home.
When the end of the week arrived Mr. Graves tried to persuade Mona to go
home with him and remain until she could decide what she wished to do in
the future, or, he told her, she was welcome to remain and make it her
home indefinitely.
But she quietly thanked and informed him that she had already arranged to
go as seamstress to a lady on West Forty-ninth street.
"You go as a seamstress?" exclaimed the lawyer, aghast. "What do you know
about sewing--you who have always had everything of the kind done for
you?"
"Oh, no; not everything," said Mona, smiling slightly. "I have always
loved to sew since I was a little child, and my nurse made me do
patchwork; and I assure you that I am quite an expert with my needle
in many ways."
"But to go out and make it a business! I cannot bear the thought! What
would your uncle say?" objected good Mr. Graves.
"I do not believe that Uncle Walter would wish me to be dependent upon
any one, if it was possible for me to take care of myself," Mona gravely
replied. "At all events," she continued, with a proud uplifting of her
pretty brown head, "I could never allow another to provide for my needs
without first trying my best to earn my own living--though, believe me,
I am very grateful for your kindness."
"You are a brave and noble girl, Mona, and I admire your spirit; but--I
have no daughter of my own, and, truly, both my wife and I would be glad
to have you come to us," Mr. Graves urged, regarding her anxiously.
"Thank you; it is very comforting to know that you are so kindly disposed
toward me, but I know that I shall respect myself more if I try to do
something for my own support," was the firm yet gentle response.
Mr. Graves sighed, for he well knew that this delicately reared girl had
a hard lot before her if she expected to earn her living as a sewing
girl.
"At least you will regard me as your stanch friend," he said, "and
promise me, Mona, that if you ever get into any difficulty you will
appeal to me; that if you should find that you have undertaken more than
your strength will allow you to carry out you will make my home your
refuge."
"Yes, I will," she said, tears of gratitude starting to her lovely eyes,
"and I am greatly comforted to know that I have one such true friend in
my trouble."
"What is the name of the family into which you are going?" her companion
inquired.
"I do not know, and it is a little singular that I do not," Mona replied,
smiling. "I applied at an employment bureau for a situation a few days
ago; yesterday I went to ascertain if there was a place for me and was
told that a lady living on West Forty-ninth street wanted a seamstress,
and I am to meet her at the office this afternoon. I, of course, asked
the name, but the clerk could not tell me--she had lost the lady's card,
and could only remember the street and number."
"Rather a careless way of doing business," the lawyer remarked, as he
arose to go. "However," he added, "let me know how you succeed after you
get settled, and if anything should occur to throw you out of your place,
come straight to us, and make our home headquarters while you are looking
out for another."
Mona's self-possession almost forsook her as she took leave of him. It
seemed almost like losing her only friend, to let him go; but she bade
him good-by with as brave a front as possible, though she broke down
utterly the moment the door closed after him.
The remainder of the day was spent in packing her trunk and looking her
last upon the familiar objects of the home that had always been so dear
to her.
But her severest trial came when she had to bid the housekeeper and the
servants farewell, for the loved and loving girl had been a great
favorite with them all, and their grief was as deep and sincere at
parting with her.
This over, she stepped across the threshold of Walter Dinsmore's elegant
home for the last time, and entered the carriage that was to bear her
away, her heart nearly bursting with grief, and tears streaming in
torrents over her cheeks.