MONA MEETS MRS. MONTAGUE'S NEPHEW.
The next morning, as soon as she had finished her breakfast, Mona asked
Mary to conduct her to the sewing-room, and there she found a pile of
work, which would have been exceedingly disheartening to a less resolute
spirit.
But the young girl had bravely determined to do the best she could and
not worry about the result.
Fate had willed that she must work for her living, and she had resolved
not to murmur at her lot, but, putting forth all her energies, hope to
please her employer and meet with success in her undertaking.
So she arranged her chair and table by a pleasant window overlooking the
street, and then boldly attacked the mountain before her.
"I wonder if Mrs. Montague intends to have these done by hand or
machine?" she mused, as she shook out the folds of snowy cloth and
began to turn a hem on one of the sheets. "And then"--with a puzzled
expression--"how am I to know how broad to make the hems?"
She feared to go on with the work without special directions, for she
might make some mistake. But after considering the matter, she determined
to leave the sheets altogether and do the over-and-over sewing on the
pillow-slips, until she could ascertain Mrs. Montague's wishes.
Mona was naturally quick in all her movements, and, being also very
persevering, she had accomplished considerable by ten o'clock, when
Mrs. Montague, in an elegant morning _negligée_ of light-blue cashmere,
and looking as lovely as an houri, strolled languidly into the
sewing-room to see what her new seamstress was about.
"Oh, you are sewing up the slips," she remarked, as she nodded in reply
to Mona's polite good morning and observed her employment. "I forgot to
tell you about the hems last night, and I have been afraid ever since I
awoke this morning that you would not make them broad enough."
"Yes, I feared I might make some mistake, so left them," Mona answered,
but without stopping her work.
"How beautiful your seams look!" the lady said, as she examined some of
the slips. "Your stitches are very fine and even; but over-and-over
sewing must be very monotonous work. You might vary it by hemming a sheet
now and then. I want the hems three inches wide on both ends."
"Do you have them stitched or done by hand?" Mona inquired.
"Oh, stitched; I have a beautifully running machine, and I want to get
them out of the way as soon as possible, for there is dressmaking to be
done. Can you run a White machine?"
Mona was conscious that her companion was regarding her very earnestly
during this conversation, but she appeared not to notice it, and replied:
"I never have, but if I could be shown how to thread it, I think I should
have no difficulty."
She was very thankful to know that all that mountain before her was not
to be done by hand.
"Do you like to sew?" Mrs. Montague inquired, as she watched the girl's
pretty hand in its deft manipulation of the needle.
Mona smiled sadly.
"I used to think I did," she said, after a moment's hesitation, "but when
one is obliged to do one thing continually it becomes monotonous and
irksome."
"How long have you been obliged to support yourself by sewing?" the
woman asked, curiously, for to her there seemed to be something very
incongruous in this beautiful high-bred girl drudging all day long
as a seamstress.
Mona flushed at the question.
There was nothing she dreaded so much as being questioned regarding her
past life.
"Not very long; death robbed me of friends and home, and so I was obliged
to earn my living," she returned, after considering a moment how she
should answer.
"Then you are an orphan?"
"Yes."
"Have you no relatives?" and the lovely but keen blue eyes of the lady
were fixed very searchingly upon the fair young face.
"None that I know of."
"You do not look as if you had ever done much work of any kind," Mrs.
Montague observed. "You seem more like a person who has been reared in
luxury; your hands are very fair and delicate; your dress is of very fine
and expensive material, and--why, there is real Valenciennes lace on your
pocket-handkerchief!"
Mona was becoming very nervous under this close inspection. She saw that
Mrs. Montague was curious about her, though she did not for a moment
imagine that she could have the slightest suspicion regarding her
identity; yet she feared that she might be trapped into betraying
something in an unguarded moment, if she continued this kind of
examination.
"I always buy good material," she quietly remarked, "I think it is
economy to do so, and--my handkerchief was given to me. How wide did
you tell me to make the hems on these pillow-slips?" she asked, in
conclusion, to change the subject, but mentally resolving that Mrs.
Montague should never see any but plain handkerchiefs about her again.
"I did not tell you any width for the slips," was the dry, yet haughty
rejoinder, for madame could not fail to understand that she had been
politely admonished that her curiosity was becoming annoying to her fair
seamstress, "but you may make them to match those upon the sheets--three
inches."
She arose, immediately after giving this order, and swept proudly from
the room, and Mona did not see her again that day. It seemed to the poor
girl, with her unaccustomed work, the longest one she had ever known, and
she grew heavy-hearted, and very weary before it was over.
She had all her life been in the habit of taking plenty of exercise in
the open air. While she was studying, Mr. Dinsmore had made her walk to
and from school, then after lunch they would either go for a drive or for
a canter in the park or the suburbs of the city.
She had never been subjected to any irksome restraint, and so it seemed
very hard to be obliged to sit still for so many hours at a time and do
nothing but "stitch! stitch! stitch!" like the woman in the "Song of the
Shirt."
But six o'clock came at last, to release her from those endless seams and
hems, and after she had eaten her dinner she was so completely wearied
out that she crept up to her bed and almost immediately fell asleep.
But the next morning she was pale and heavy-eyed, and Mrs. Montague
evidently realized that it was unwise to make her apply herself so
steadily, for she made out a memorandum of several little things which
she wanted and sent Mona down town to purchase them.
The girl came back looking so bright and fresh, and went at her work with
so much vigor, the woman smiled wisely to herself.
"She hasn't been used to such close application, it is plain to be
seen," she mused, "and I must take care or she will give out. She sews
beautifully, though, and rapidly, and I want to keep her, for I believe
she can be made very useful."
So every day after that she sent her out for a while on some pretext or
other, and Mona felt grateful for these moments of respite.
One day she was sent to Macy's with a longer list than usual, and while
there she came face to face with a couple of acquaintances--young ladies
who, like herself, had only that winter been introduced to society.
They had been only too eager, whenever they had met her in company, to
claim the wealthy Mr. Dinsmore's niece as their friend.
Mona bowed and smiled to-day, as she met them, but was astonished and
dismayed beyond measure when they both gave her a rude stare of surprise,
and then passed on without betraying the slightest sign of recognition.
For a moment Mona's face was like a scarlet flame, then all her color
as quickly fled, leaving her ghastly white as she realized that she had
received the cut direct.
Her heart beat so heavily that she was oppressed by a feeling almost of
suffocation, and was obliged to stop and lean against a pillar for a
moment for support.
She did not see that a young man was standing near, watching her with a
peculiar smile on his bold face. He had observed the whole proceeding,
and well understood its meaning, while, during all the time that Mona
remained in the store, he followed her at a distance. Her emotion passed
after a moment, and then all her pride arose in arms. Her eyes flashed,
her lips curled, and she straightened herself haughtily.
"They are beneath me," she murmured. "Homeless, friendless as I am
to-day, I would not exchange places with them. I am superior to them
even in my poverty, for I would not wound the humblest person in the
world with such rudeness and ill-breeding."
Yet, in spite of this womanly spirit, in spite of the contempt which she
felt for such miserable pride of purse and position, she was deeply
wounded and made to realize, as she never yet had done, that Mrs.
Richmond Montague's seamstress would henceforth be regarded as a very
different person from Miss Mona Montague, the heiress and a petted beauty
in society.
She did not care to go out shopping so much after that; but when obliged
to do so she avoided as much as possible those places where she would be
liable to meet old acquaintances.
She would take her airing after lunch in the quiet streets of the
neighborhood, and then return to her tasks in the sewing-room.
She was not quite so lonely after a dressmaker came to do some fitting
for Mrs. Montague, for the woman was kind and sociable, and, becoming
interested in the beautiful sewing-girl, seemed to try to make the time
pass pleasantly to her, and was a great help to her about her work.
Mona often wondered how Mrs. Montague would feel if she should know who
she was. Sometimes she was almost inclined to think that she did suspect
the truth, for she often found her regarding her with a curious and
intent look. It occurred to her that the woman might possibly have known
her mother, and noticed her resemblance to her, for Mr. Dinsmore had told
her that she looked very much like her.
One day Mona was standing close beside her, while she tried on a fichu
which she had been fixing for her to wear that evening, when the woman
broke out abruptly, while she scanned her face intently:
"For whom are you in mourning, Ruth?"
Mona did not know just how to reply to this direct question; but after an
instant's reflection she said:
"The dearest friend I had in the world. Do you not remember, Mrs.
Montague, that I told you I was an orphan? I am utterly friendless."
Mrs. Montague regarded her with a peculiar look for a moment, but she did
not pursue the subject, and Mona was greatly relieved.
"If she knew my mother," she told herself, "and has discovered my
resemblance to her--if she knew Uncle Walter, and I had told her I was
in mourning for him--she would have known at once who I am."
It was very evident that her employer was pleased with her work, for she
frequently complimented her upon her neatly finished seams, while the
dressmaker asserted that she had seldom had one so young to work with
her who was so efficient.
On the whole she was kindly treated; she was in a pleasant and luxurious
home, although in the capacity of a servant; her wages were fair, and for
the present she felt that she could not do better than to remain where
she was, while she experienced a very gratifying feeling of independence
in being able to provide for herself.
She had seen Mr. Graves only once since leaving her own home, and then
she had met him on the street during one of her daily walks.
He had told her that Mr. Dinsmore's property had all passed into the
hands of his wife, although the house had not as yet been disposed of; it
had been rented, furnished, to a family for a year. He said he had never
met Mrs. Dinsmore; all her business had been transacted through her
lawyer, and the woman evidently did not like, for some reason, to appear
personally in the settlement of the property.
He kindly inquired how she endured the confinement of her new life, and
urged her cordially to come to him whenever she was tired and needed a
rest, telling her that she should always be sure of a warm welcome.
A day or two after this meeting with her old friend, and just as she was
returning from her usual walk, Mona encountered a young man as she was
about to mount the steps leading into Mrs. Montague's residence.
He was dressed in the height of fashion, and might have been regarded as
fairly good-looking if he had not been so conceited and self-conscious.
The young girl did not bestow more than a passing glance upon him,
supposing him to be some stranger whom she might never meet again.
She ran lightly up the steps, when, what was her surprise to find
him following her, and, just as she was on the point of ringing for
admittance, he stayed her hand, by remarking, with excessive politeness:
"I have a latch-key, miss--pray allow me to admit you."
Of course, Mona knew then that this young exquisite must be the nephew of
Mrs. Montague, of whom Mary had told her--Mr. Louis Hamblin.
She observed him more closely as she thanked him, and saw that he was
apparently about twenty-five years of age, with light-brown hair, blue
eyes, and somewhat irregular, yet not unpleasant, features. He was well
formed, rather tall, and carried himself with ease, though somewhat
proudly.
He was evidently impressed with Mona's appearance, as his look of
admiration plainly indicated.
He appeared to regard her as some visitor to see his aunt, for his manner
was both respectful and gentlemanly as he opened the door, and then stood
aside to allow her to pass in.
Mona bowed in acknowledgment of this courtesy, and, entering, passed
directly through the hall and up stairs, greatly to the young man's
astonishment.
He gave vent to a low whistle, and exclaimed, under his breath, as he
deposited his cane in the stand and drew off his gloves:
"Jove! I imagined her to be some high-toned caller, and she is only some
working girl. Really, though, she is as fine a specimen of young
womanhood as I have encountered in many a day, and I should like to see
more of her. Ah, Aunt Marg," he went on, as Mrs. Montague came sweeping
down the stairs, just then, in an elaborate dinner costume, "how fine
you look, and I'm on time, you perceive! How about the McKenzie reception
to-night?"
"We must go, of course," responded the lady, in a somewhat weary tone,
"for Mrs. McKenzie would be offended if we should remain away, though I
am really too tired after the Ashton ball last evening to go out again;
besides, I do not like to wear a dress that isn't properly finished; but
I shall have to, for the girls cannot possibly do all that needs to be
done."
"You are too particular, Aunt Marg. What if every seam isn't bound just
as you like it? Your general make-up is always superb. By the way, who
was that girl in black who just came in and went up stairs?" the young
man concluded, as if it had only just occurred to him to inquire
regarding her.
"Oh, that was Ruth Richards, my seamstress; she had just been out on an
errand," Mrs. Montague indifferently returned as they passed into the
drawing-room.
"Ruth Richards? Pretty name, isn't it?" her companion remarked, "and
the girl herself is a stunner--one does not often meet so lovely a
seamstress."
Mrs. Montague turned upon him sharply.
"Nonsense, Louis," she said, impatiently; "don't allow your head
to be turned by every pretty face that you see. There are plenty of
fine-looking girls in our own set, without wasting your admiration
upon a poor sewing-girl."
"I never should have imagined that she was a sewing-girl," Mr. Hamblin
returned. "I supposed her to be some aristocratic young lady of your
acquaintance, who had come for a social call. She carries herself like
a young queen; her form is simply perfect, and her face!--well, were I an
artist I should love to paint it," he concluded, with unusual enthusiasm.
Mrs. Montague shrugged her graceful shoulders, and curled her red lips
scornfully.
"What would Kitty McKenzie say if she could hear you run on like this
about a girl who has to work for her living?" she sneered.
"Kitty McKenzie cannot hold a candle to Ruth Richards. Dress her as Kitty
rigs herself out and all New York would be raving about her," the young
man replied.
"Louis Hamblin, I am all out of patience with you! Kitty would feel
highly complimented with your opinion of her charms," cried his aunt,
angrily. "But let me tell you," she added, resolutely, "I shall not
countenance any fooling with that young lady; you have shown her very
marked attention, and she has a right to expect that you have serious
intentions. You know that I should be only too glad to have you marry
Kitty; she is a sweet girl, to say nothing about her beauty, while the
McKenzies are all that could be desired, both as to wealth and position;
and the day that Kitty becomes your wife I will match her dowry as a
wedding-gift to you."
"Thank you; I know that you are all that is kind and good in your plans
for me, Aunt Margie," Louis responded, in a conciliatory tone, "and you
need not fear that I am rashly going to throw Kitty over; we are the best
of friends, although not acknowledged lovers. I cannot quite make up my
mind to propose, for, really, I do not feel like tying myself down just
yet."
"It would be a good thing for you--you have sown wild oats enough, Louis,
and it is time that you began to think of settling down in life. If you
please me you know that a brilliant future awaits you, for you are my
only heir," Mrs. Montague concluded, as she searched his face earnestly.
"My dear Aunt Margie, you well know there is nothing I like to do better
than to please you," was the gallant response, and Mrs. Montague believed
him, and smoothed her ruffled plumage.
"Nevertheless," Mr. Louis Hamblin remarked later, while smoking his cigar
by himself, "I shall try to see more of that pretty seamstress, without
regard to the McKenzie expectations. Jove! what eyes she has! and her low
'thank you,' as I let her in, had the most musical sound I've heard in
many a day. Stay," he added, with a start, "now I think of it, she must
be the same girl to whom those proud upstarts gave the cut direct in
Macy's the other day. I thought her face was familiar, and didn't she
pull herself together gloriously after it. There's a romance connected
with her, I'll bet. She must have been in society, or she could not have
known them well enough to salute them as she did. Really, Miss Ruth
Richards grows more and more interesting to me."