REMORSE.
“Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.”
GOLDSMITH.
Madame Le Conte did not appear again that evening.
Floy returned to her work upon the new gown immediately upon leaving
the table, and did not lay it aside again until the clock struck ten.
Then Kathleen showed her to an adjoining bedroom, whose appointments
seemed to carry her back to the happy days when she was the loved and
petted only child of well-to-do parents. Less than a year ago she had
seen the last of them, but how far, far away they already seemed!
The young heart was sore with grief and care, and not for itself alone.
But the worn-out body must have rest, and all was soon forgotten in
sound, refreshing sleep.
She woke in the dull gray light of the winter morning and sprang up
instantly, half trembling with affright at thought of the lateness of
the hour.
At Mrs. Sharp’s, breakfast was long since over. To-morrow was
Christmas, and, though not expecting either to go out or to receive
company at home, the Madame must have her new dress to wear on that
occasion.
But no one found fault with Floy; the buxom Kathleen had an excellent
breakfast ready for her, and greeting her cheerily with “The top o’ the
mornin’ to ye, miss,” waited upon her with a smiling face.
She took her meal alone, as on the previous day, and had the cosey
work-room to herself for a couple of hours; then the Madame waddled in,
wheezing and groaning, dropped into a chair, and told a pitiful tale of
her wearisome night and Mary’s crossness, weeping and sighing as she
talked.
Floy pitied and tried to console her, but fortunately found it
necessary to say but little, as the lady talked on with scarcely a
pause except for breath, and presently fell to petting and caressing
her lap-dog, then to examining the dress, commenting with much
satisfaction upon its beauty and probable becomingness, querying
whether it could be finished that day, and consulting Floy about the
style of trimming.
Floy advised a deep, heavy silk fringe to match in color, or of a
little darker shade.
The Madame caught at the idea, and Mary, coming in at that moment, was
sent to order the carriage that she might go at once and select it
herself.
Frisky pricked up his ears, gave a short, joyous bark, ran to the
window overlooking the side entrance, and jumped upon a chair whence he
could see into the street.
“See that, miss?” queried the laughing Kathleen, who was present,
engaged in running the sewing-machine as on the day before. “The little
baste knows more’n a babby. He always rides with the Madame, an’ whin
he hears the carriage ordered he’s ready for a start. He’ll stay there
watchin’ now till it comes.”
“Yes,” said the Madame, overhearing the remark, “he’s the most
intelligent little creature you ever saw, and the prettiest. I wouldn’t
part with him for any money--the darling! Now, Mary,” as her maid
re-entered the room, “dress me at once.”
“Certainly, Madame. What will you be pleased to wear?”
“That green silk suit and the green velvet hat,” answered her mistress,
waddling into the dressing-room; “gloves to match, and my emerald set,
ear-rings, pin, and bracelets, and a point-lace collar and sleeves. Get
out one of my worked white skirts too, and a pair of silk stockings and
gaiters.”
“It’s very cold, Madame; the wind from the lake cuts like a knife, and
you’ll suffer in thin shoes,” Mary objected to the last clause of the
order.
“Lamb’s-wool stockings, then, and kid boots.”
Bureau-drawers, wardrobe, and closets were laid under contribution, and
the Madame’s toilet began.
It had progressed to the putting on of her hat, when, glancing in the
mirror, she suddenly changed her mind.
“Green doesn’t become me to-day,” she said, “why didn’t you tell me?
Take it off at once.”
“Tell you? much good that would have done!” grumbled Mary, removing the
obnoxious hat; “you wouldn’t have believed me.”
“Get out my black velvet hat and a black silk suit,” said her mistress,
ignoring the impertinent rejoinder.
“You’ll not have time for your shopping if you wait to dress again,
Madame,” objected the girl; “it is already half-past eleven, and the
days are short. Your black velvet cloak and hat will not look amiss
with the green dress.”
The Madame yielded to these suggestions all the more readily because at
that moment a joyous bark from Frisky announced that the carriage was
in waiting.
He sprang from the chair, rushed down to the outside door, and
scratched and whined there till Kathleen ran down and opened it for
him, when he immediately took possession of one half of the back seat,
leaving the other for his mistress, who presently followed, having
reached the lower floor, not by the stairs, but by the elevator,
carefully lowered by the ever-ready Kathleen.
Mary, without whom the Madame never stirred from the house, took the
front seat, a handsome afghan and wolf-skin were tucked carefully about
their feet by Rory, and the carriage drove off.
For a short space the Madame puffed and wheezed in silence, then she
spoke:
“We’ll get the fringe first, and have it sent up; then the Christmas
gifts. Mary, what do you think Miss Kemper would like?”
“How should I now, Madame? I’m not acquainted with the young lady’s
tastes,” returned the maid snappishly.
She had a raging headache, the result of an almost sleepless night
spent in efforts to undo the evil effects of the rich, heavy, evening
meal, indulged in by her wilful charge.
The Madame, who was feeling depressed and hysterical from the same
cause, put her handkerchief to her eyes, shed a few tears, and
whimpered:
“It’s shameful the way I’m treated by you, Mary. There aren’t many
ladies who would put up with it as I do.”
“Handkerchiefs are always acceptable,” remarked the delinquent,
ignoring the reproach, but giving the suggestion in answer to the
query. Then, by way of salve to her conscience, she added: “It’s like
your generosity to think of making a present to a stranger.”
This restored the Madame to good-humor. She was generous, and she liked
to have full credit for it.
The day was very cold but clear and bright, and the city was full
of life and activity. Vehicles jostled each other in the streets,
pedestrians hurried hither and thither along the sidewalks, there was
a grand display of holiday goods in the windows, and the stores were
crowded with purchasers.
The bustle and excitement were agreeable to Madame Le Conte, and she
found much enjoyment in selecting her gifts and paying for them from
her well-filled purse.
Meanwhile Floy toiled on at the dress, her thoughts now with Espy in
his anxiety and grief, now dwelling mournfully upon the past, memory
and imagination bringing vividly before her the loved faces that should
gladden her eyes no more on earth, and causing her to hear again each
well-remembered tone of the dear voices now silent in the tomb.
She longed to seek out a solitary place and weep, but the luxury of
tears was not for her; she forced them back, silently asking help to
obey the command to be ever “rejoicing in hope, patient in tribulation.”
Hope! ah, she had not lost that even for this life. Espy still lived,
still loved her; they might yet be restored to each other. And her
mother--that unknown yet already dearly-loved mother--who should say
how soon she would be given to her prayers and efforts?
Her needle flew more swiftly, while a tender, loving smile played about
her lips and shone in her dark, lustrous eyes.
The Madame came home panting and wheezing, but elated with her success
in shopping. She was quite ready for Christmas, and it might come as
soon as it pleased. But--ah, there was the dress!
“Are you going to get it done to-day?” she asked, sinking into a chair
in front of Floy, and glancing anxiously from her to the garment and
back again.
“I shall try, Madame, but fear it is doubtful,” Floy replied, raising
her eyes for an instant to her interrogator’s face.
The Madame started, changed color, and seemed quite agitated for a
moment. Then recovered herself.
“The girls shall both help you,” she said, “and you won’t mind working
in the evening, will you? You’ll not need to go back to Mrs. Sharp’s
to-night, will you?”
“No, Madame; and I may as well work late here as there.”
The Madame thanked her, and left the room with a mental resolve that
the girl should not lose by her willingness to oblige.
“I’m worn out, Mary,” she said to her maid, who was bestowing in a
closet in the dressing-room the numerous parcels which she and Rory had
just brought upstairs; “change my dress for a wrapper, and I’ll lie
down and take a nap while you and Katty help with the dress. You’re not
too tired, I suppose?”
“No, of course not; it isn’t my place ever to be too tired for anything
you wish done,” grumbled Mary, putting the last package upon the closet
shelf and closing the door with a little more force than was necessary.
Then half ashamed of her petulance, in view of the generous way in
which her mistress had just been laying out money in gifts for herself
and her brother, “I’ll do my best, Madame,” she added in a pleasant
tone, “but I hope you’ll take a light supper to-night for your own sake
as well as mine.”
“I’m quite as anxious to rest well at night as you can be to have me,
Mary,” returned the Madame in an injured tone, as she sat down and
began herself to unfasten and remove her outer wrappings.
“Yes, I suppose so, Madame, and you must excuse my free speaking,”
responded Mary, coming to her assistance.
The Madame’s enormous weight made her a burden to herself, and the
unwonted exertion of the day had wearied her greatly. Comfortably
established on a couch in her bedroom, she presently fell into a sleep
so profound that she was not disturbed when her maid stole softly in
at nightfall, drew the curtains, lighted the gas, and retired again.
But a moment later the Madame awoke with a low cry, and starting to a
sitting posture, rubbed her eyes and glanced hurriedly about the room.
“Ah,” she sighed, sinking back again, “it was a dream, only a dream! I
shall never see her more! My darling, oh, my darling! How could I be so
cruel, so cruel! Pansy, Pansy! And I am so lonely, so lonely! with not
a soul in the wide world to care for me!”
Sobs and tears came thick and fast; then she rose, slowly crossed the
room, turned up the gas, and unlocking her jewel-box, took from it a
small, plain gold locket attached to a slender chain.
It opened with a touch, showing a sweet, sunny child face, with smiling
lips, soft, wavy brown hair, and large, dark, lustrous eyes.
The Madame wept anew as she gazed upon it, and her broad breast heaved
with sigh after sigh.
“So many years! so many years!” she moaned, “and my search has been
all in vain. Ah, dear one, are you yet in the land of the living? My
darling, my darling!” and the tears fell in floods.
But at length growing calmer, she restored the trinket to its place,
turned down the gas, and staggering to an easy chair beside the window,
dropped heavily into it.
Her breath came pantingly, the tears still stood in her eyes. She wiped
them away, and drawing aside the curtain, looked into the street.
The moon had not yet risen, but the lamps were lighted, and there was
a clear, starlit sky. She could see the passers-by as they hurried on
their way, now singly, now in groups of two or more; mostly well, or at
least comfortably, clad, and carrying brown-paper parcels suggestive of
the coming festivities.
A confectionery on the opposite corner was ablaze with light, showing a
tempting array of sweets in the windows. It was crowded with customers,
and there was a constant passing in and out of cheerful-looking men and
women and bright-eyed, eager children.
Presently a slender figure, apparently that of a very young girl, very
shabbily dressed in faded calico and with an old shawl thrown over her
head caught the Madame’s attention.
She came suddenly around the corner, and though shivering with cold,
her thin garments flapping in the wind, stood gazing with longing eyes
upon the piles of fruit, cakes, and candies. The Madame’s eyes filled
as she noted the child’s hungry look and scant clothing. With a great
effort she rose and threw a shawl about her shoulders; then she went
to a drawer in her bureau where she kept loose change, and returning,
tapped on the sash, threw it up, and called to the girl, who had not
moved from her station on the other side of the street.
She turned, however, at the sound of the voice, and seeing a beckoning
hand, crossed swiftly over.
“Stand under here and hold out your shawl,” wheezed the Madame. “There!
now run back and buy yourself a lot of goodies for Christmas.”
“Thank you, ma’am, oh, thank you!” cried the child as the window
went down again, and the Madame dropped into her chair, wheezing and
coughing, to find her maid close at her side.
“Madame, are you mad?” exclaimed Mary. “Your bare head out of the
window this bitter cold night. Well, if either of us gets a wink of
sleep it’ll be more than I expect!”
The Madame’s cough forbade a reply for the moment.
“I’ll get you your drops,” said Mary, running to a closet where
medicines were kept. “I can’t imagine what on earth induced you to do
such a foolish thing. Why didn’t you ring for me?”
“Never mind,” panted the Madame; “you seem to forget that I’m my own
mistress, and yours too. Is the dress nearly done?”
“We can finish it by sitting up, if you’ll let Katty wait on you. All
the machine stitching’s done, and only Miss Kemper and I can work on it
now; so Katty’s gone down to get you some supper.”
“I don’t want any.”
“But you know, Madame, you’ll be ill if you don’t eat; fasting never
agrees with you, no more than over-eating.”
Kathleen came in at that moment bearing a tempting little repast upon a
silver waiter, which she set down before her mistress.
The Madame at first refused to eat, but presently, yielding to the
combined entreaties and expostulations of the two, made a very
tolerable attempt. Kathleen was retained to wait upon her, and Mary was
directed to assist Floy until the gown should be completed.
“You’re looking very tired,” the latter remarked, as Mary resumed her
seat by her side.
“Not a bit more’n you do, miss,” said the girl, with a compassionate
glance at Floy’s pale cheeks and heavy eyes. “Dear me! don’t you think
riches harden the heart? There’s the Madame has a dozen elegant silk
dresses, good as new, if she has one, yet we must both wear ourselves
out to get this done for to-morrow, though there won’t be a soul
besides ourselves here to look at it, unless the lawyer or doctor
should happen to call, which ain’t in the least likely, seein’ it’s a
holiday.”
“Perhaps, then, we may consider ourselves blest in being poor,” Floy
returned cheerfully; “and which of us would exchange our health for the
poor Madame’s wealth?”
“Not I, I’m sure,” said Mary, shaking her head; “she’s worth her
thousands, and has everything that money can buy, but she has never an
hour’s ease or happiness.”
Both were too weary, Floy too heartsore, to be in a talkative mood; so
they worked on in silence till startled from it by a sudden loud peal
from the door-bell.
“Who can that be?” exclaimed Mary, laying down her work and glancing at
the clock on the mantel; “half-past nine, and we never have any callers
of evenings. There,” returning to her work at the sound of the opening
and shutting of a door, followed by footsteps hastily descending the
stairs, “Katty’s gone to answer it.”
The next minute Floy felt a light tap on her shoulder, and looked up to
find Hetty’s bright, cheery face bending over her.
“Ah, I’ve surprised you! Thought I should. Hope the shock will be good
for your nerves,” Hetty said, laughing in a pleased, kindly way at
Floy’s start and joyous exclamation:
“Oh! is it you? how glad I am!”
“Yes; John and I have come to take you home.”
“John?”
“One of Aunt Prue’s boys. The children have come home for the
holidays--but wouldn’t Araminta take my head off if she heard me say
that! She’s the youngest, has arrived at the mature age of fifteen,
and considers herself wiser than her parents or ‘than ten men that can
render a reason.’ Come, put on your things, my dear.”
“I wish I could, but I have engaged to finish this to-night, and
there’s a full hour’s work on it yet.”
“Not if I help,” said Hetty, pulling off her gloves and taking a
thimble from her pocket. “I’ll call master John up and give him a book.
You see I came prepared for emergencies.”
“He won’t like it, will he?”
“He’s a dear good fellow, and would do more than that for me; or for
you when he knows you.”