MONA RECEIVES A SHOCK.
When Mona arrived at the office of the employment bureau, at the hour
appointed, she found awaiting her the carriage belonging to the woman who
had engaged her services.
A pretty serving girl admitted her when she arrived at the elegant brown
stone mansion, and remarked, as she showed her up to the room she was to
occupy, that "the mistress had been called out of town for the day, and
would not be at home until dinner time."
The girl seemed kindly disposed, and chatted socially about the family,
which consisted only of "the mistress and her nephew, Master Louis." The
mistress was a widow, but very gay--very much of a society lady, and
"handsome as a picture," She was upward of forty, but didn't look a day
over thirty. She was very proud and high spirited, but treated her help
kindly if they didn't cross her.
Somehow Mona did not get a very favorable impression of her employer from
this gossipy information; but her fate was fixed for the present, and she
resolved to do the best that she could, and not worry regarding the
result.
As the girl was about to leave the room to go about her duties, she
remarked that dinner would be served at six o'clock, and that Mona was to
come down to the basement to eat with the other servants.
Mona flushed hotly at this information. Must she, who all her life had
been the petted child of fortune, go among menials to eat with she knew
not whom?
But she soon conquered her momentary indignation, for she realized that
she was nothing more than a servant herself now, and could not expect to
be treated as an equal by her fashionable employer.
"Will you tell me your name, please?" she asked of the girl, and trying
not to betray any of her sensitiveness.
"Mary, miss," was the respectful reply, for the girl recognized that the
new seamstress was a lady, in spite of the fact that she was obliged to
work for her living.
"Thank you; and--will you please tell me the name of your mistress, also;
the card which she left at the office was lost, and I have not learned
it," Mona said as she arose to hang her wraps in the closet.
"Lor', miss! that is queer," said the girl in a tone of surprise, "that
you should engage yourself and not know who to."
"It didn't really make much difference what the name was--it was the
situation that I wanted," Mona remarked, smiling.
"True enough, but my lady's name's a high-sounding one, and she's not at
all backward about airing it; it rolls off her sweet tongue as easy as
water off a duck's back--Mrs. Richmond Montague," and the girl tossed her
head and drew herself up in imitation of her mistress's haughty air in a
way that would have done credit to a professional actress, "But there,"
she cried, with a start, as a shrill voice sounded from below, "cook is
calling me, and I must run."
She tripped away, humming a gay tune, while Mona sank, white and
trembling, upon the nearest chair.
"Mrs. Richmond Montague!" she repeated, in a scarcely audible voice.
"Can it be possible that she--this woman, to whom I have come as a
seamstress--is my father's second wife--or was, since she is a widow! How
strange! how very strange that I, of all persons, should have been fated
to come here! It is very unfortunate that I could not have known her
name, for, of course, I should never have come if I had. It may be," she
went on, musingly, "that she is some other Mrs. Montague; but no--it
could hardly be possible that there are two persons with that peculiar
combination of names. This, then, is the woman for whom my father
deserted my mother in order to secure the fortune left by his aunt! How
unworthy!--how contemptible! I am glad that I fell to Uncle Walter's
care; I am glad that I never knew him--this unnatural father who never
betrayed the slightest interest in his own child. But--can I stay here
with her?" she asked, with burning cheeks and flashing eyes. "Can I--his
daughter--remain to serve the woman who usurped my mother's place, who is
living in affluence upon money which rightly belongs to me?"
The young girl was trembling with nervous excitement, and a feeling of
hot anger, a sense of deep injustice burned within her.
This startling discovery--for she was convinced that there could be but
one Mrs. Richmond Montague--stirred her soul to its lowest depths. She
felt a strange dread of this woman; a feeling almost of horror and
aversion made her sink from contact with her; and yet, at the same time,
she experienced an unaccountable curiosity to see and know something
of her. There was a spice of romance about the situation which prompted
her, in spite of her first impulse to flee from the house--to stay and
study this gay woman of the world, who was so strangely connected with
her own life.
She could leave at any time, she told herself, should the position prove
to be an uncongenial one; but since she had chosen the vocation of a
seamstress, she might as well sew for Mrs. Richmond Montague as any one
else; while possibly she might be able to learn something more regarding
her mother's history than she already knew. She felt sure that her uncle
had kept something back from her, and she so longed to have the mystery
fully explained.
But, of course, if she remained, it would never do for her to give her
own name, for this woman would suspect her identity at once, and probably
drive her out into the world again. It was not probable that she would
knowingly tolerate the child of a rival in her home.
Mona was glad now that she had not told Mary her name, as she had once
been on the point of doing.
"What shall I call myself?" she mused. "I do not dare to use Uncle
Walter's name, for that would betray me as readily as my own; even Mona,
being such an uncommon name, would also make her suspect me. There is my
middle name, Ruth, and my father was called Richmond--suppose I call
myself Ruth Richards?"
This rather pleased her, and she decided to use it. But she was strangely
nervous about meeting Mrs. Montague, and several times she was tempted to
send Mary for a carriage and flee to Mr. Graves's hospitable home, and
start out from there to seek some other position.
Once she did rise to call her. "I cannot stay," she said. "I must go."
But just then she heard voices in the hall below, and, believing that
Mrs. Montague had returned, she turned back and sat down again with
a sinking heart, assured that her resolve had come too late.
At six o'clock she went down to the basement, where she had been told
dinner would be served, and where she found no one save Mary and Sarah,
the cook, who proved to be a good-natured woman of about thirty-five
years, and who at once manifested a motherly interest in the pretty and
youthful seamstress.
Mary informed her, during the meal, that Mrs. Montague was going out that
evening to a grand reception, and had sent word that she could not see
her until the next morning; but that she would find some sheets and
pillow slips in the sewing room, which she could begin to work upon after
breakfast, and she would lay out other work for her later.
Mona uttered a sigh of relief over the knowledge that the meeting, which
she so much dreaded, was to be postponed a little, and after dinner she
returned to her room, and sat down quite composedly to read the morning
paper, which she had purchased on her way to Mrs. Montague's.
While thus engaged, her eye fell upon the following paragraph:
"No clew has as yet been obtained to the mysterious Palmer affair,
although both the police and detectives are doing their utmost to trace
the clever thief. It is most earnestly hoped that they will succeed
in their efforts, as such successful knavery is an incentive to even
greater crimes."
"What can it mean?" Mona said to herself; "and what a blind paragraph! Of
course, it refers to something that has been previously published, and
which might explain it. Can it be that Mr. Palmer's jewelry store has
been robbed?"
This, of course, led her thoughts to Ray Palmer, and she fell into
troubled musings regarding his apparent neglect of her, and in the midst
of this there came a rap upon her door.
She arose to open it, and found Mary standing outside.
"Please, Miss Richards, will you come down to Mrs. Montague's room?" she
asked. "She has ripped the lace flounce from her reception dress while
putting it on, and wants you to repair it for her."
Mona was somewhat excited by this summons; but, unlocking her trunk, she
found her thimble, needles, and scissors, and followed Mary down stairs
to the second floor and into a large room over the drawing-room.
It was a beautiful room, most luxuriously and tastefully fitted up as a
lady's boudoir, and was all ablaze with light from a dozen gas jets.
In the center of the floor there stood a magnificently beautiful woman.
She was a blonde of the purest type, and Mona thought that Mary had made
a true statement when she had said that, though she was upward of forty,
she did not look a day over thirty, for she certainly was a very youthful
person in appearance.
Her skin was almost as fair as marble, with a flush on her round,
velvet-like cheeks that came and went as in the face of a young girl.
Her features were of Grecian type, her hair was a pale gold and arranged
in a way to give her a regal air; her eyes were a beautiful blue, her
lips a vivid scarlet, while her form was tall and slender, with perfect
ease and grace in every movement.
"How lovely she is!" thought Mona. "It does not seem possible that she
could have even an unkind thought in her heart. I can hardly believe that
she ever knew anything of my poor mother's wrongs."
Mrs. Montague was exquisitely dressed in a heavy silk of a delicate peach
ground, brocaded richly with flowers of a deeper shade. This was draped
over a plain peach-colored satin petticoat, and trimmed with a deep
flounce of finest point lace. The corsage was cut low, thus revealing
her beautiful neck, around which there was clasped a necklace of blazing
diamonds.
Her arms were bare to the shoulder, the dress having no sleeves save a
strap about two inches wide, into which a frill of costly point was
gathered. Long gloves of a delicate peach tint came above her elbow,
and between the top of each of these and the frill of lace there was
a diamond armlet to match the necklace.
Magnificent solitaires gleamed in her ears, and there was a star composed
of the same precious stones among the massive braids of her golden hair.
She was certainly a radiant vision, and Mona's quick glance took in every
detail of her dress while she was crossing the room to her side.
Mrs. Montague bent a keen look upon her as she approached, and she gave a
slight start as her eyes swept the delicately chiseled face of the girl.
"You are the new seamstress, Mary tells me. What is your name--what shall
I call you?" she questioned, abruptly.
"M--" Mona had almost betrayed herself before she remembered the need of
concealing her identity.
But quickly checking herself, she cried:
"Ruth Richards, madame; call me Ruth, if you please."
"Hum! Ruth Richards--that's rather pretty," remarked the lady, but still
searching the fair face before her with a look of curious interest.
"But," she added, "you look very young; I am afraid you are hardly
experienced enough to be a very efficient seamstress," and the lady told
herself that those delicate, rose-tipped fingers did not look as if they
had been long accustomed to the use of a needle.
"I do not understand very much about dressmaking," Mona frankly replied,
although she ignored the reference to her youthfulness; "but I can do
plain sewing very nicely, and, indeed, almost anything that is planned
for me. I distinctly stated at the office that I could neither cut nor
fit."
"Well, I can but give you a trial," with a little sigh of disappointment,
as if she regretted having engaged one so young; "and if you cannot fill
the place, I shall have to try again, I suppose. But, see here! I caught
the thread that fastened this lace to my skirt, and have ripped off
nearly half a yard. I want you to replace it for me, and you must do
it quickly, for I am a little late, as it is."
Mona dropped upon her knees beside the beautiful woman, threaded her
needle with the silk which Mary brought her, and, though her fingers
trembled and her heart beat with rapid, nervous throbs, she quickly
repaired the damage, and in a manner to win commendation from Mrs.
Montague.
"You are very quick with your needle, and you have done it very nicely,"
she said, with a smile that revealed two rows of the most perfect teeth
that Mona had ever seen. "And now tell me," she added, as she turned
slowly around, "if everything about my costume is all right, then you
may go."
"Yes," Mona returned; "it is perfect; it fits and hangs beautifully."
"That is the highest praise any one could give," Mrs. Montague responded,
with another brilliant smile; "and I believe you are really a competent
judge, since your own dress hasn't a wrinkle in it. Did you make it
yourself?"
"I--I helped to make it. I told you I do not know how to fit," Mona
answered, with a quick flush, and almost a feeling of guilt, for she had
really done but very little work upon the simple black robe which had
been made since her uncle's death.
"Well, I shall soon find out how much you do know," said the lady in a
business-like tone. "You can begin upon those sheets and pillow slips
to-morrow morning--Mary has told you, I suppose. That will be plain
sewing, and you can manage it well enough by yourself. Now you may go,"
and the elegant woman turned to her dressing-case, gathered up an
exquisite point-lace fan and handkerchief, while Mona stole softly out
of the room and up to her own, where, no longer able to control the
nervous excitement under which she was laboring, she wept herself to
sleep.
The poor grief-stricken girl felt very desolate on this, her first night
beneath a strange roof, and realized, as she had not before, that she was
utterly alone in the world, and dependent upon the labor of her own
hands for her future support.
Aside from the grief which she experienced in losing her uncle and the
lovely home which for so many years had been hers, she was both wounded
and mortified because of Ray Palmer's apparent indifference.
She could not understand it, for he had always seemed so innately good
and noble that it was but natural she should expect some evidence of
sympathy from him.
He had been so marked in his attentions to her during that evening at
the opera, he had appeared so eager for her permission to call, and had
implied, by both words and manner, that he found his greatest pleasure in
her society, she felt she had a right to expect some condolence from him.
She had begun to believe--to hope that he entertained a more tender
sentiment than that of mere friendship for her, and she had become
conscious that love for him--and the strongest passion of her nature--had
taken deep root in her own heart.
How kind he had been to her that night--how thoughtful! anticipating her
every wish! How his glance and even the tones of his voice had softened
and grown tender whenever their eyes had met, or he had spoken to her!
What, then, could be the meaning of his recent neglect? Could it be
possible that it had been occasioned by the loss of her wealth?--that it
had been simply the heiress of the wealthy Mr. Dinsmore in whom he had
been interested, and now, having lost all, his regard for her had ceased?
It was a bitter thought, but she could assign no other reason for his
strange silence and absence during her sorrow.
Must she resign all the sweet hopes that had begun to take form in her
heart?--all the bright anticipations in which he had borne so conspicuous
a part?
Must she lose faith in one who had appeared to be so manly, so noble, and
so high-minded?
It certainly seemed so, and thus the future looked all the darker before
her, for, humiliating as it was to confess it, she knew that Ray Palmer
was all the world to her; that life without him would be almost like a
body without a soul, a world without a sun.
Her uncle's death had come upon her so like a thunderbolt out of a clear
sky, almost benumbing all her faculties with the grief it had hurled upon
her so remorselessly, that she could think of nothing else until Mr.
Graves had come to her with that other fatal piece of news--the loss of
her fortune.
She had scarcely looked into a daily paper until that evening, for
she felt no interest in the outside world; she could apply her mind to
nothing but her own afflictions; consequently, she had not known anything
of the mysterious and exciting circumstances connected with Ray Palmer's
sudden disappearance and the stolen diamonds. That little blind
paragraph, which she had seen just before she was called down to Mrs.
Montague's room, was the only hint that she had had of any trouble or
loss in the Palmer family.
So, of course, it is not strange that she so misjudged Ray; she could
not know that only a great wrong kept him from speeding to her side to
express the deepest interest and sympathy for her in her sorrow.
And it was well, perhaps, that she did not know, for it would only have
added to her troubles and caused her greater suffering.