THE NEW ACQUAINTANCE
“I have succeeded in becoming acquainted with the lady in black,”
remarked Elinor Wylie, a few days subsequent to the date of the
beginning of this story, as, with her husband, she came slowly up from
the dining-room and entered their private apartment. “Did I tell you?”
“No, I think not. Do you find her as interesting as fancy painted her?”
drawled Mr. Wylie languidly.
“Yes, more so. At least, I find her very refined and cultured. She has
surely been in better circumstances.”
“Ah, the pity of it, in this world of ours!” replied Mr. Wylie, throwing
himself into a luxurious armchair and shaking his head expressively. “It
is the story common to the lives of too many Americans. One day we’re
dining at Delmonico’s, the next, starving in a hovel. Ah, seductive,
evanescent, elusive Fortune, why do we trifle with you? To me the pathos
of life is epitomized in the words, ‘She has seen better days.’”
“I have engaged her to sew for me.”
“Indeed!” Mr. Wylie’s eyebrows were elevated quizzingly. “What has
become of Madame Somers?”
“I found out by asking Mrs. Wallace,” continued Mrs. Wylie, following
her own train of thought, and ignoring his question, “that the block on
Herald Street had an establishment for making and selling ready-made
clothing, so that I felt sure she did sewing, and I followed her home
one day and saw her enter a stairway leading up over Mrs. Dray’s
hairdressing rooms. I accordingly asked Mrs. Dray if she could tell me
where I might find a woman to do plain sewing or embroidery, and she
spoke at once of a worthy woman in the block who wanted to get work, and
directed me to her rooms. She is on the third floor, in wretched little
quarters, but she has pretty things about her. She met me kindly, and
when I made known my business, seemed glad to get work. I’m thankful
that I went, for, if you will believe me, Horace, she had been making
buttonholes for Darkson at a quarter of a cent apiece, supporting
herself and child upon that.”
“Such things are painful to hear of,” said Mr. Wylie, shaking his head
again. “I trust you will pay her better.”
“Of course. And, Horace, she has been making cotton blouses and overalls
for workmen for eighty-five cents a dozen. Think of it.”
“I suppose you learned her name and history?” he interrogated.
“Yes—no—” hesitated Mrs. Wylie. “I learned her name was, or at least she
told me to call her Mrs. Lucien, and the child’s name is Dolores. Odd,
isn’t it? She nicknames her Dolly. Such a sweet little creature, too. I
wonder if that is Mrs. Lucien’s real name?” she continued musingly as
she toyed with a tassel of the upholstering.
Mr. Wylie sank into the depths of his chair and studied the opposite
wall intently for several moments.
“I wish,” he said, “I could think of whom it is she reminds me. I
believe if I could see her gowned in white silk and diamonds I should
remember.”
“What an idea,” laughed his wife. “I should like to see her so dressed,
I confess. She should have more color in that pale face and less sadness
in those dark eyes, then she would shine in such a brilliant setting.
Yes, I am sure she has a history.”
“Which you did not learn?”
“Which I did not learn.”
Again Mr. Wylie sat wrapped in thought, stroking his massive chin
softly.
“Do you remember, Nell, all who composed our party two years ago in the
Adirondacks? Or was it _three_ years?”
“More nearly four, I think. Why, there was Judge Matthews and wife; the
Misses Eldridge—just think, Fannie is married; Mrs. Harmon and her
brother; Tiny Lewis, Dr. Bessemer, and Cousin Harry and
Lottie,—and—no—let me see! That was all that there were at Paul Smith’s,
I believe, except the time that we went to Au Sable Chasm we met
Major—oh—what was his name, that Major Somebody and his wife, that
Cousin Harry was so taken with at the fancy ball? Don’t you remember
her, Horace? They went to Childwold with us, too.”
Mr. Wylie started.
“Ah, I remember! He went West. He did have a lovely wife. I wonder if
she is the one I am reminded of.”
“And then there were the Pemberton girls who went to Saranac with us,
and old Professor Sawyer with his bugs and beetles, hunting specimens.
What a perfectly lovely time we had that summer.”
“Yes,” dreamily. “We’d better be planning a trip for next season. This
fad of staying in the city because it’s cooler won’t last, I fancy. I’ve
been thinking of Ocean Beach,” tentatively.
“And I of Bar Harbor; but it doesn’t matter. We’ve been most
everywhere,” Mrs. Wylie said with a little sigh. “I don’t know but what
I have enjoyed Forest City as much as I should any other place. It has
been delightfully cool here on the lake.”
“Yes, but I suspect that my little Nell has a hankering for the moon,
just the same. I reckon we’d better go to the seashore for a little
while next month, just to break the monotony of life. And if you go,
you’ll want to take Tibby with you, I suppose.”
“Most assuredly. She’s a perfect treasure. I couldn’t get along without
her.”
“I see you are becoming much attached to her.”
“Indeed I am. I never had a maid before so deft and pleasing.”
“I’m afraid she’s too pretty for her position.”
“O, no; not _too_ pretty. Children like a pretty companion. Robbie never
obeyed Mrs. Harbeck as he does Tibby. But she has remarkable eyes. For
some reason she has taken a great dislike to that young man with the
eye-glasses, on the third floor. It’s amusing to see the look with which
she regards him. Yesterday Tibby was waiting at the head of the stairs
for Robbie and that man came along and stared at her rather insolently
through his glasses. You should have seen Tibby. Her eyes began to
dilate like those of a tigress at bay, and she returned his stare. The
fellow started down, but for some reason stumbled and made a very
ungraceful descent to the bottom of the staircase. It really seemed as
if Tibby made him fall. You can imagine her delight at his mishap.”
“That is the way of womankind,” said Mr. Wylie, smiling. “They laugh at
our downfalls, unless we drag them down with us, which we’re apt to do.
Tibby is no exception; but seriously, do not pet her too much, or she
may forget what is due to her position in life. She must not appear
impertinent.”
“I’m sure she behaves well. Tibby is not ill-bred. Her parents were
quite superior people, if they did live on a farm. Tibby boasts that her
mother was a Devereaux, grand-niece to an earl,” said Mrs. Wylie,
laughing.
“The little minx! She has pride enough, no doubt, and who cannot boast
of ancestors in America! She certainly is a bright girl, and has a
remarkably pretty face. She cannot fail to attract attention, especially
as you treat her like a younger sister, rather than like a servant. It
is really unfortunate for her that she is so unlike the ordinary maid.”
“I have thought of all this, Horace, and I mean to make more of her than
simply a servant. In time she will grow to be my trusted friend and
companion, I am sure. Why may she not? She is well-born; better than
many in our best society.”
“You dear little philanthropic soul, you’d better adopt her at once. But
don’t pick up too many pretty girls to waste sympathy upon or _I_ shall
be neglected, I fear. Besides, I have often noticed how illy such
kindness is repaid. You might have cause to regret it.” Mr. Wylie picked
up the evening paper and was soon absorbed in its columns.