GHOSTS OF THE PAST.
“Oh, it comes o’er my memory
As doth the raven o’er the infected house.”
SHAKESPEARE, _Othello_.
No wonder Floy found the house so quiet. Madame’s dressing-room,
adjoining the one where she sat, was tenantless, the lady herself
sleeping soundly in the bedroom beyond, Frisky curled up by her side,
and Mary dozing on a sofa near by, while Kathleen had locked up her
kitchen and gone out upon some household errand.
As the clock on the mantel struck ten Madame awoke.
“Mary!” she called plaintively, “Mary, why did you let me sleep so
long?”
“Because if I had not you would have reproved me for waking you,”
returned the maid, shaking off her drowsiness and assuming a sitting
posture upon the sofa.
“Mary, you are impolite, not to say unkind and disrespectful, to answer
me so,” whimpered the mistress, applying a handkerchief to her eyes.
“You don’t appreciate all I do for you. It isn’t every girl that can
live in the luxury you do--fed and clothed like a lady--and lay by her
five or six dollars every week too.”
“That’s true enough, Madame; but I’m sure I earn it all, and you know
as well as I that you couldn’t get anybody else to serve you as much to
your liking for twice the money. What will you be pleased to have for
your breakfast?”
“Nothing,” returned Madame, sobbing behind her handkerchief.
“How will you have it prepared?” asked Mary with unmoved gravity.
Madame burst into a laugh. “I’ll have a broiled sweet-bread, hot
buttered muffins, coffee, and marmalade.”
“Shall I prepare it?”
“No, ring for Kathleen.”
Mary touched the bell.
“What gown will Madame be pleased to wear?” she asked, bringing a basin
of water and a towel to the bedside.
“That blue silk wrapper. Has Mrs. Sharp come?”
“No, but she has sent a young girl to work for you. I left her in the
sewing-room making your skirts.”
“The top o’ the mornin’ to yees, Madame!” cried Kathleen, coming in
fresh and rosy from her walk. “I hope ye’re aisy, an’ feel like atin’ a
big breakfast. Ye breathe aisier nor ye do sometimes.”
Madame was seized at that moment with a wheezing asthmatic cough.
“I had a bad night,” she said pantingly, “and have no breath to spare.
Tell her what to get me, Mary.”
Thirty years ago Madame Le Conte was a slender, graceful girl, with
a clear olive complexion, delicate features, ruby lips, bright
black eyes, and lively, engaging manners; now she was an overgrown,
gross-looking, middle-aged, or rather elderly, woman, immensely fat,
tortured with asthma, gout and sundry kindred ailments, dull, heavy,
and uninteresting, nervous, irritable, childishly unreasonable and
changeable, full of whims and fancies--a wretched burden to herself and
all about her.
Rolling in wealth, she constantly sighed over the sad fact that there
were none of her own kith and kin to inherit it, and that the service
rendered her was not the service of love, but merely of self-interest.
Mary, her personal attendant, had been with her many years, thoroughly
understood her ways, and knew how to minister to her wants as no one
else did; and quite aware of the fact, sometimes took advantage of it
to scold her mistress when much tried by her unreasonable demands,
threatening to leave, and occasionally even refusing to obey orders,
when Madame would angrily dismiss her, but on being seemingly taken at
her word, would relent, burst into tears and pathetic entreaties, and
buy a reconciliation with fair promises, increased wages, or expensive
presents.
Madame wore a cork hand; how she had come to be deprived of her good
right hand no one knew or dared ask, for she was extremely sensitive
in regard to her loss, and would not endure the slightest allusion to
it. Mary removed the artificial limb at night and replaced it in the
morning without question or comment, and made it part of her business
to divert the idle curiosity of others from this deformity of her
mistress. This she did without waiting for instructions; for Mary had a
heart, and often pitied the poor rich cripple from its very depths.
“Yes, she had a bad night, so don’t make her talk any more,” she said
to Kathleen as she carefully laved her mistress’s face and hand.
“She’ll have a broiled sweet-bread--”
“No, no, let it be stewed; I’ll have it stewed,” interrupted the Madame.
Mary completed the bill of fare as given by her mistress a few moments
before, and Kathleen turned to go, but had scarcely reached the door
when she was called back.
“Waffles, waffles, Katty,” wheezed her mistress.
“Yes, ma’am; and muffins too?”
“No--yes, yes. Go, and make haste; I’m starved.”
Kathleen had reached the head of the stairs when she was again
recalled, and tea and cream-toast substituted for coffee, muffins,
and waffles; then the Madame thought she would prefer chocolate, and
finally decided that all three should be prepared, toast and muffins
also, and she would take her choice.
Even Kathleen’s almost imperturbable good-nature was somewhat tried.
Her face clouded for a moment, but all was sunshine ere she reached her
kitchen again, where she flew nimbly about, executing the latest orders
of her capricious mistress, saying laughingly to herself:
“Sure an’ it’s me that ’ud better make haste afore she has time to
change her mind again; for it won’t be long it’ll take her to do that
same.”
There was a knock at the side gate, and Kathleen flew to open it, the
rose on her cheek deepening and her pretty blue eyes dancing with
delight.
“It’s only me, Kathleen, me darlint!” cried a cheery voice.
“Sure and don’t I know your knock, Rory?” she responded, drawing back
the bolt and admitting a strapping young Irishman. “But come into the
kitchen; I’ve got the Madame’s breakfast over the fire, and can’t stop
here to spake two words to ye,” she added, running back, he following
close at her heels.
“Has the Madame sint down her orders yet?” he asked, sitting down
beside the fire and watching the girl’s movements with admiring eyes.
“No; she’s just up, and I’m thinking the horses’ll be likely to rest
till after dinner anyhow, for she’s got a dressmaker at work makin’ up
that illegant silk she bought yesterday, and she’ll be wantin’ to get
fit, you know.”
“Av coorse. Well, I’m contint, since me wages goes on all the same, an’
maybe I’ll have the more time to sit here with you.”
“Maybe so, and maybe not,” said Kathleen, turning her muffins; “they’ll
maybe be wantin’ me up there to run the machine.”
“I wish it was to make a silk gown for yersilf, jewel; the Madame’s
got a plinty now, and all the fine dresses as iver was made couldn’t
make her look half as purty as you do in that nate calico. Things isn’t
avenly divided in this world, Kathleen, mavourneen.”
“Sure now, Rory, the good things isn’t all on one side, afther all,”
returned Kathleen, laughing. “Wouldn’t the Madame give all her fine
dresses, and silver and goold too, for my health and strength or yours?”
“That she would; or for your illegant figger and purty skin that’s
just like lilies and roses, and your eyes that shine brighter than her
diamonds.”
“Whist!” cried Kathleen, hastily lifting her coffee-pot from the fire
just as Mary opened the dining-room door with the query:
“Is breakfast ready?”
“Everything’s done to a turn,” said Kathleen. “And here’s Rory ready to
carry it up, if ye like.”
“No, she has changed her mind; she’ll eat in the breakfast-room. Rory’s
to bring her down in the elevator, and take her up again in it when
she’s done.”
When Madame had duly discussed her breakfast, and recovered breath
after her ascent to her private apartments, Floy was summoned to her
presence.
The young girl came quietly into the dressing-room, where the lady
reclined in a large easy chair.
Madame started at sight of her, uttering a low exclamation.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice trembling a little as she spoke,
“and what is your name?”
“I am one of Mrs. Sharp’s apprentices, and my name is Florence Kemper.
I have cut and basted the lining of your dress; shall I fit it on you
now?”
“Yes--no; Mary will put it on me and see if it is all right. Mary knows
my ways.”
Madame’s tone was still agitated, and she seemed flurried and uneasy
under Floy’s glance.
The girl noted it, and with true delicacy turned her eyes in another
direction while Mary performed the required service.
Madame stood up before the glass. “I think it fits, Mary, doesn’t it?”
“I think not quite. Shall Miss Kemper look at it?”
Madame assented, and Floy’s nimble fingers were presently busied about
her, she meanwhile earnestly regarding the reflection of the young face
in the glass.
It seemed to have far more interest for her than the fit of the new
gown, though ordinarily she was eager as a child in regard to any new
article of dress.
“Does it satisfy you now, Madame?” asked Floy at length.
The Madame started as if waking from a dream, glanced at the image
of her own portly figure, and responded with a hasty “Yes, yes, it
is all right! Child, you look tired, wretchedly tired--almost ill.
You must rest. Sit down in that chair, and Mary shall bring you some
refreshments.”
“Many thanks, but I have no time for rest; these are busy days for
dressmakers,” Floy answered, with a sad smile, thinking of the piles
of dress patterns still untouched, and garments in various stages of
completion, in Mrs. Sharp’s work-room.
“Sit down!” repeated the Madame, with an imperious gesture; “I am used
to obedience from all in this house. Just slip my wrapper on again,
Mary, and then go to my closet and bring out all the good things you
can find.”
Mary obeyed, nothing loath, for she too felt drawn to the young
stranger, and Floy presently had spread before her a tempting variety
of cakes, confectionery, and tropical fruits.
In vain she protested that she was not hungry; Madame would not be
content till she had seen her eat an orange and a bunch of grapes, and
put a paper of candies into her pocket.
For the rest of the day the Madame insisted upon occupying an easy
chair in the sewing-room, where, with Frisky curled up in her lap and
the latest novel in her hand, she furtively watched Floy’s movements,
and when she spoke, listened with ill-concealed eagerness to every tone
of her voice.
Floy, whose thoughts were far away, was scarcely conscious of this
strange interest taken in her, but Mary noted it with wonder and
growing curiosity shared by Kathleen, who had been, as she anticipated,
summoned to the work of running the machine. They telegraphed each
other with nods, winks, and smiles, neither the Madame nor Floy
perceiving.
“The sun has set, and it is growing dark,” remarked the Madame, closing
her book and breaking in on a long silence. “You are straining your
eyes in your efforts to thread that needle, Miss Kemper. Come, put up
your work and rest a little, while Mary and Kathleen prepare our tea.”
“Thank you, Madame,” said Floy, “but Mrs. Sharp would not approve of so
early a rest, and if I may have a light I will go on with the work.”
“Tut! tut! _I’m_ mistress here, and I’ll have no such overwork!” was
the quick, imperative rejoinder. “I’ll make it right with Mrs. Sharp,
paying for the time all the same.”
Floy submitted, repeating her thanks, for to the over-strained eyes and
weary frame a little rest was most refreshing.
The work was neatly folded and laid aside. Mary and Kathleen tidied the
room, gathering up the shreds of silk and lining, and putting things in
place; then receiving orders from Madame for a delicious little supper
to be served in her dressing-room for Floy and herself, they went down
to prepare it.
A bright fire in an open grate filled the room with ruddy light, and
Floy was glad that the Madame refused to have any other for the present.
Very sad, very quiet the young girl felt, thinking of Espy and his
sorrow; and taking, in obedience to her employer’s direction, an easy
chair by the window, she gazed out musingly upon the lake, whose dark,
restless waters were now faintly illumined by a line of silver light
along the eastern horizon.
“The moon’s about to rise,” wheezed her companion. “I like to watch it
as it seems to come up out of the water. Did you ever see it?”
“No, Madame,” returned the girl, smiling slightly, “Mrs. Sharp’s
apprentices have little time or opportunity to observe the beauties of
nature.”
“But Sundays--you do not work then?”
“No, Madame, but they find me weary enough to go very early to bed.”
“Ah, too bad, too bad! But look, look! what a shame to be deprived of
so lovely a sight as that!” cried the Madame as the queen of night
suddenly emerged from her watery bed, flooding the whole scene with
mellow radiance.
“It is very beautiful,” murmured Floy, sighing softly to herself.
How often in the happy days gone by she and Espy had enjoyed the
moonlight together!
“I would not stay there if I were you,” pursued the Madame. “Why should
you stay where you are so badly treated? Why should any one?”
“Because, Madame, it is there I must gain the knowledge that is to
enable me to earn my bread.”
“A hard thing for a lady to do. Any one can see you are a lady--your
speech, your manners, your appearance, all tell it. But, ah well, you
have youth, good looks, health! and though I’m rich, I’d be only too
glad to exchange with you,” and in her wheezing tones, and with many
a pause for breath, the Madame went on to give a long account of her
sufferings by day and by night.
Floy listened with a patient attention and sincere sympathy such as the
Madame, in her loneliness, was little accustomed to.
“It must be very dreadful to have so many ailments,” she said
feelingly. “I don’t know how I could bear your difficulty of breathing
even, without any of the others.”
The Madame started, sat upright, and looked earnestly at the girl,
while tears gathered in her eyes.
“Your voice is like a half-forgotten strain of music,” she said,
sighing; “and your face--ah, it seems as if I must have seen it in the
long ago, the happy time when I was young and life full of sunshine
and flowers. Alas, child!” she added, sinking back upon her cushions
again, “as the years roll on how the sunlight gives place to clouds and
darkness, and the flowers fade and die! would that I could be young
again!”
“Were you always happy in your youthful days, Madame?”
There were tears in the low, sweet voice that put the question.
“No, no; indeed I believe I sometimes thought myself quite wretched!”
exclaimed the Madame; “but I see now what a fool I was.”
“Supper is ready, ladies,” announced Mary, throwing open the door of
communication with the dressing-room. “Shall I wheel you in, Madame?”
With a peevish reply in the negative the Madame rose and waddled to
the table, preceded by Frisky, for whom a chair had been placed at her
right hand.
Floy was invited to the seat opposite her hostess, and, conscious of
being a lady, accepted it with no feeling of surprise that it was
accorded her. In fact, her thoughts were again far away, and scarcely
to be recalled by the tempting nature of the repast or the magnificence
of the solid silver and rare old china.
Fortunately she was not called upon to talk or to listen, as Frisky
was taking his supper after the same manner in which he had eaten his
breakfast, Kathleen attending to him while Mary waited upon the table.
The Madame ate and drank enormously, paying no heed to an
occasional reminder from Mary that she would have to suffer for her
over-indulgence.
“You are a cruel creature! you would deprive me of the only pleasure
left me in life!” she at length exclaimed passionately, as the girl
almost absolutely refused to help her for the sixth time to fried
oysters.
“Madame,” replied Mary firmly, “you know the doctor has forbidden them
altogether, and that an hour or two from now you’ll be abusing me for
letting you have any at all.”
At that the Madame rose, angrily pushed back her chair and retired in a
pet to her room.