There was a subdued bustle in the Mason mansion which betokened an
unusual event. Covers were removed from unused furniture, long-closed
rooms were newly aired and decorated, windows were opened to the
sunlight, and hot-houses were ransacked for potted plants and cut
flowers. In the store-rooms of Elsie’s department tables and shelves
were piled high with viands of every sort, the combined result of
Lizzette’s and Elsie’s skill; for Elsie had been afraid on so momentous
an occasion to trust entirely to herself.
“And all this fuss is over one small man,” whispered Elsie to Lizzette
as they stood admiring the aggregation of eatables. “Has he been
starving among the Hottentots all these years, or is he a great
gourmand?”
“Nezair,” laughed Lizzette. “Il est ze apple of ze eye of Helen Mason.
Zay are alone togezzer in ze world, and ze one sweet sing in Helen Mason
ees her love for Herbeart. Mais, he ees très cher efen to me. So vot you
call warm-hearted, wiz ze bonhomie zat make ze world bright. He travel
in Europe zese several year, and like Helen il à l’argent in heaps I
know not.”
“What has he made of himself?”
“Eh bien. Vraiment, le galant homme!”
“A gentleman! A noble profession. How does he do it?”
“Ze witch ees laughing! I no explain to zose mocking eyes.”
“Never mind, Lizzette. There is something so charmingly indefinite about
the term ‘gentleman’ that I was only trying to discover what particular
form this rara avis took.”
“He choose no profession zat I know. He no haf to work.”
“Unlucky mortal! How he will envy us, Lizzette! But tell me about him.
Does he resemble his sister?”
“Not ze leetle bit. Il a les eyes like ze summer sky, zay are so blue.
Il est so tall like ze young tree. His hair ees ze sunshine of ze
autumn, and his smile like ze warmth of ze summer sun.”
“Scorching,” exclaimed Elsie. “How glad I am I shall not come under its
gleams; for I would rather cook his dinner than be cooked by that
smile!”
“Ze mauvaise Elsie! She make ze fun of eferysing, efen my heart. I haf
loved him since many year he climb my knee, and I only speak ze figures
de la poesie.”
“My dear Lizzette,” exclaimed Elsie contritely, “I do not make fun of
your love, nor of your similes, which really are quite wonderful.
Indeed, I never knew you so eloquent before; but this worship of yours
for the fair god is so new to me, I did not know that men were entitled
to so much.”
“Ze time vill come, ma petite Elsie, ze time vill come ven zat mocking
heart sall take back zose idle words.”
“How solemn you are, Lizzette. You frighten me.”
“Non, non, mais, zere ees no love like ze true love in ze heart of ze
good woman.”
“It may be,” said Elsie lightly, “but like the old Scotchwoman’s white
linen, ‘it taks a sair bit o’ achin’ ta get it,’ and I’ve no desire to
prove it.”
“Eet vill prove itself in ze heart, and no ask desire.”
“Dear me! how far we have wandered from our muttons. I suppose your
paragon dines here to-night?”
“Oui, and to-morrow I sall go shake ze hand de mon Herbeart, and find
him still ze same.”
“Perhaps not.”
“I know,” said Lizzette positively. “My lad ees not made of ze sheap
stuff zat wear out memory.”
The next morning as Elsie, in response to Mrs. Mason’s invitation,
entered the morning-room, she became at once aware that its fair
mistress was not its only occupant. Partially concealed behind a
newspaper she saw a blonde head, out of which a pair of blue eyes gave
her a quick glance, and she noticed with an odd sense of detail that
their owner wore a dark blue smoking-jacket with facings of pale blue
satin. There was also a running accompaniment of observation as to a
slim white hand, the curling ends of a blonde mustache, and an air of
indolent grace in the long lithe figure. Venturing but one glance, she
stood with book and pencil in hand, quietly awaiting Mrs. Mason’s
orders. It had been one of the results of Elsie Murchison’s secluded
life and country rearing that no one had ever told her how beautiful she
was, and if she could but read the pleasing tale in her mirror she
accepted it in as humble and thankful a spirit as she accepted the
sunshine and the flowers, and there was always a refreshing
unconsciousness about her that reminded one of the innocence of a child.
If she ever knew how charming a picture she made as she stood before her
mistress with downcast eyes and flushed cheeks and the quaint cap and
kerchief only intensifying her girlish simplicity, it was not till long
after. The natural flush of youthful expectancy at coming in contact
with the young and handsome man before her was crushed back under the
self-scorn with which she regarded any vague desire, as she expressed
it, to “look over the fence.” Not for one moment would she allow herself
to forget that she was “Elsie the cook,” and a little defiant curve
settled around the dimpled mouth as she became aware of the intent gaze
of those blue eyes over the top of the newspaper. It was with haste
amounting almost to curtness that she received her orders and betook
herself out of the room.
There were two or three moments of silence after Elsie’s departure, and
then Mrs. Mason’s guest threw down his paper with the question: “Where
in the name of all the graces, Helen, did you find such a Hebe as that?”
There was a steely flash in Mrs. Mason’s eyes as she answered: “Have you
been half the world over, Herbert Lynn, only to come home and rave over
the beauty of my cook?”
“Cook? I thought Lizzette was responsible for that superb dinner last
evening.”
“So she was in part; but this girl, Elsie Murchison, is a protégé of
hers whom I have engaged for a short time until I can do better.”
“Well, if her cooking corresponds to her beauty she must be a treasure.”
“That is what James and William both declare her to be,” replied Mrs.
Mason calmly.
“Oh, of course, just their style of girl,” and Mr. Lynn resumed the
reading of his newspaper, as if the subject had no further interest for
him.
“Singular,” he mused, while his eyes roamed over an editorial résumé of
the Parnell inquiry, “what surprises nature does love to work, putting
the face of an houri over a mind that doubtless shames a Nancy Sykes.
Helen’s cook, indeed! but, by Jove! I never saw so lovely a face
before.”
After this, despite the black looks of his sister, Herbert took especial
delight in haunting the morning-room at the usual hour of her conference
with her cook. He was seldom rewarded by hearing the Hebe speak, and
then only in monosyllables; but he noticed she had “that excellent thing
in woman,” a well-modulated voice, as well as a quiet and reserved
manner.
“Herbert,” exclaimed Mrs. Mason with an angry flash in her gray eyes,
after he had been present at the third or fourth of these conferences,
“I’ll not have you watching that girl so, and I warn you that my house
is not the place for any old-world gallantries.”
The mild blue eyes met her own for an instant with an equally angry
glance, which, however, speedily died away by the time the nonchalant
lips had framed an answer. “I believe I’ve been doing nothing unbecoming
a gentleman.”
“Well, I only drop you a warning. I know what the views of young men
usually are after they have spent a season in Paris.”
“You are wise in your generation,” he said with a slight touch of scorn.
“When did you learn of the all-pervading blight of that modern
Gomorrah?”
“Don’t try to be lofty with me,” pettishly exclaimed his sister. “You
know as well as I do that no good can come of your admiring that girl.”
“And what possible harm can come of it? I have done nothing
reprehensible, except to bestow a few quick glances upon a fair and
youthful face. If she is not to be looked at, you must veil her like the
prophet of Khorassan. As for your insinuations—well, if men go to the
devil as regularly and deliberately as you seem to think, it is often
because they are driven there by the cool assumptions of women like
yourself. Now, my dear sister, let me disabuse your mind once for all of
the fear that I have imbibed nothing but old-world vices in my
continental trip. I always did respect virtuous womanhood and always
shall. I shall not in the least harm your Hebe of the pots and pans, but
to relieve your mind I’ll read the papers hereafter in the
billiard-room.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Mason, after Herbert had somewhat ostentatiously
departed, and she was left to ruminate on not over-sweet fancies, “I
fancy I’ve forestalled any absurd ideas that might get into Elsie’s
head, and although I am growing to like her better every day, just let
me catch her making eyes at Herbert!”
“Elsie,” said Mrs. Mason the next morning, “we are all going out for the
day, and you may have your time to yourself. I’ve given the maids a
half-holiday and there’ll be nobody at home but James.”
Elsie stood for a moment irresolute. A swift desire had all but leaped
to her lips—but dare she make it known?
“What is it, Elsie?” asked her mistress, evidently more graciously
disposed than usual.
“I would like to ask a great favor. If there is to be no one in the
house may I try the piano?”
“I was not aware that you played the piano,” said Mrs. Mason a trifle
coldly. Elsie’s face flushed.
“I do not. I never touched one in my life; but I have a longing to see
what I can do. There isn’t volume and scope enough in our little cottage
organ, and I promised Antoine to ask permission to try the piano. He is
so much interested in music and finds so much pleasure in learning that
I love to help him even in little things.”
“I see no objection in the present instance; but you of course
understand that I regard the request as an unusual one for a servant to
make?”
“I do,” said Elsie hotly as she turned away, “and I will not——”
Back swept the red blood from Elsie’s face, and a white, dull patience
overspread it as she took up the broken thread of her speech.
“Mrs. Mason, I was going to say that I would not touch your piano for
worlds! You seem to be afraid all the time that I will forget the
difference in our station and presume upon it. Have I done so? Have I
been less than obedient, or indicated by word or look that I thought
myself anything more than a servant? But even servants have the common
right of humanity, and I asked a favor, knowing it to be a favor,
because of the crippled boy I love and the sick sister who taught me to
love and do for all things helpless and dependent. If it were not for
them no money would tempt me to stay where I am not trusted; but they
are helpless and in need. I shall never ask any further favors of you,
Mrs. Mason; but if you still wish to keep me I shall try, as I have
tried, to be obedient and faithful to your interests.”
Mrs. Mason sat for a moment without speaking, and then suddenly reached
out her hand to Elsie. “Come back, child,” she said, “and sit down. I
want to talk with you.”
Elsie came back from the door and stood before her mistress. “Sit down,”
reiterated Mrs. Mason.
“It is expected that servants will stand in the presence of their
superiors,” answered Elsie with the old mischievous sparkle in her eyes.
Mrs. Mason laughed. “I like your spirit, anyway. I really haven’t any
objection to your using the piano when we are away. I’m glad you are
ambitious to cultivate yourself; but you mustn’t make the mistake of
regarding a little superficial finish as cultivation. Genuine
cultivation strikes deep in the soil and takes hold of every fibre of
the being.”
“Mrs. Mason,” said Elsie, “you make a mistake if you think I have any
longing for the mere name of lady. I believe I could be your cook all my
days and yet make myself worthy of the character and appellation. It is
not what one does so much as in the manner of doing it that lies the
distinction, and I have as natural a longing for all things noble and
beautiful as the flowers have for the sun, and just as good a right to
reach for them.”
“Certainly,” assented Mrs. Mason; “but with such surroundings you
haven’t a very hopeful chance of obtaining them. Your life is not a very
happy one.”
“Yes, it is,” replied Elsie stoutly, “because I make it so. I wouldn’t
change places with the richest woman in this city, if by so doing I had
to lose the dear hopes and sympathies for every day living that make
even our misfortunes bearable. O Mrs. Mason, before the fire and
Margaret’s sickness, nothing could have exceeded the daily delight of
our lives, even with all their hard work and privation. Something to
believe in, some hope for humanity, some trifle in word or deed for each
other—why, it seemed like a foretaste of heaven. And now—well—” she went
on, choking back the sobs, “it is a delight to me to know that my
earnings have placed my brother Gilbert in the manual-training school,
and are helping Margaret, Lizzette, and Antoine in numerous ways. I
don’t want anything in this world, but just to grow into light and life
with the dear ones I love and who love me.”
Mrs. Mason did an unprecedented thing for her. She clasped one of
Elsie’s hands in her own, and said with a little break in her voice: “My
dear child, you must promise to forget my severity, and take me at my
word when I tell you to use the piano as often as you find the coast
clear, and also to help yourself to what books you like in the library.
I shall never speak a harsh word to you again.”
“Don’t say that,” exclaimed Elsie quickly. “I may need a good many.”
“Well, the compact stands until you do need them.”
Two hours later, having seen the carriage drive from the door, and
supposing the house empty with the exception of James, who was dozing in
his pantry off the dining-room, Elsie came softly down the stairs to the
front drawing-room. She had taken off cap, kerchief, and apron, and wore
only a dark cloth dress with a little knot of bright red silk at the
throat. With childish curiosity she investigated everything in the
handsome room, pausing longest before a Carrara marble statuette of
Cupid and Psyche and talking aloud with all the abandon of a child.
“So that face of Psyche’s was the best the sculptor could do to
represent the soul. I should call it rather the absence of soul; but
then I’m a Philistine, and lack culture; and as for Cupid, if the blind
god is no fairer than he is painted—I should say carved—he wouldn’t
stand much chance of awaking immortality in me. I don’t believe I’ve got
a bit of poetry in me, anyhow; I’m so inclined to laugh at sentiment, or
sentimentality—it all amounts to the same thing. In either event, I
suppose it shows that ‘Elsie the cook’ is made of coarser clay than
those who find beauty in unmeaning faces. But I forget. ‘Elsie the cook’
has gone away, and Elsie the lady has come to stay.”
A low ripple of laughter broke from her lips over the unintentional
couplet. “A poet, after all! I guess, as they say below stairs, I’ll
throw up my job and get a quill and ink-stand.”
At this juncture, a gentleman who had been stretched at full length upon
a couch within a curtained alcove at the further end of the library,
closed the book he had been reading, and shoving the curtain aside for
an inch or two, gazed into the drawing-room through the half-open door.
It chanced that the wide pier-glass was so situated that nearly the
whole interior of the drawing-room was visible to the occupant of the
alcove, and a half-smile gleamed beneath the curled blonde mustache as
he listened to Elsie’s amusing comments.
“Elsie the lady has come to stay,” she repeated, “and now I’ll see if I
can play it as well as madam herself. I wonder if I look like one,” and
half-dancing up to the glass, Elsie stood for a moment looking
critically at herself. “No, I won’t do. My hair ought to be so,” and she
gathered it up on the top of her head, from which the riotous ends
speedily escaped in a curling mass. “There! that’s better; looks quite
fashionable; gown is very plain, but then we’ll suppose I go in for
asceticism. No rings, but no pot black on my hands. Nails well manicured
and tolerably aristocratic-looking. That is, there’s quite a taper to
the fingers, which I suppose puts the proper stamp on. Now that my lady
has come to her own, let’s see how she receives her guests. We’ll try
her cook first, so as to get the proper air of dignified severity. No,
I’ll not do it,” she said thoughtfully, as she stood for a moment with
downcast eyes. “She was kind to me after all, and I’ll not repay it with
mockery even to myself. It is quite evident that there is a great deal
due to station in this world, and Elsie the cook must cultivate a little
appreciation. Come, my Lord Snubbem, and teach me to be a Brahmin.”
With a mock courtesy Elsie stood before a great sleepy hollow chair of
blue velvet and went on with her soliloquy:
“You will no doubt understand, my lord, that this is my first appearance
in society, and lacking the _savoir faire_ of long acquaintance, I
shall, I presume, shock you with some of my ‘wild woolly western’ ideas.
Nevertheless, having seen that my brother, Mr. High-and-Mighty, just
returned from ‘the continent’—that is the way even Americans put it, as
if there were but one continent—is paying his proper devoirs to Miss
Bullion, and will probably fall in love with her, or rather with her
money, which, entre nous, is all ‘we’ ask nowadays, I suppose I’ll have
to permit you, my Lord Snubbem, after a great deal of coaxing, to induce
me to play for you. Of course you know all the time I’m dying to show
off; at least that’s the way they say it is in society, and so you offer
me your arm and lead me to the piano, and I prepare to display my
diamond rings—dear me, it’s too bad I haven’t any!—and my precious
little knowledge of music. Let me see, how shall I begin? With a grand
flourish, of course; now for that Hungarian battle song!” And almost
forgetful of the character she was supposed to represent, Elsie struck
the heavy chords of the overture, and became at once absorbed in the
melody she was evoking. “Ah, that is grand,” she sighed tremulously.
“There is power, adaptability, volume in a piano that you can’t find in
a cottage organ if you smother your soul in it. Now good-by, Lord
Snubbem. Elsie the cook and Antoine the cripple have come back and are
going to forget all about you.”
Presently, after a few drum-beats of the piano, arose the shrill, sweet
notes of a trumpet-call. Again it came, louder, sweeter than ever, then
the answering tones of the piano, until trumpet-call and drum-beat were
blended in one brilliant clash of melody. Then the piano ceased and
Elsie’s whistle took up the plaintive solo of the violin, which is
supposed to represent the pathetic heroism of the Hungarian mother in
sending her loved ones to battle. Softly, yet clearly, and with such
underlying feeling rang the bird notes through the room that the
listener felt tears gathering beneath his eyelids. Scarcely had the
sweet notes ended when louder and faster came the crash of battle, to be
followed by the low dirge and moaning cries rendered by the resonant
whistle. “Oh, dear,” sighed Elsie, “if Antoine had only been here, it
might have been worth while. What a grand thing the piano is! Poverty
wouldn’t be so bad if it did not exclude so much of the heaven of music
and art, etc., etc., etc. Now, Elsie the cook, stop that vain longing!
Maybe you’ll earn a piano yet with your immense riches. Just one more
try, and Elsie the cook must go into the lower regions again; but it’s
been glorious to know what such a life might mean. Come, old comforter,
and compose my soul,” and she struck the accompaniment to the old, old
song, “Jesus, Lover of my Soul.” The fresh young voice, gaining
confidence as the feeling pervading the melody swept over her, seemed to
fill every nook and corner of the room and rise upward and outward until
it was lost on the shining pathway to the stars. It was dusk when Elsie
closed the piano, and with a sudden fervor she bent down and kissed it.
“The only friend I have in the house,” she sighed aloud. A moment later
she passed out into the hall humming softly to herself:
“Hide me! Oh, my Saviour, hide,
Till the storm of life be passed!”
When the last notes had died away in the distance Herbert Lynn sprang
from his couch, and striking a match, looked at his watch.
“Six o’clock!” he exclaimed. “Helen will be furious because I’ve not
kept my engagement; but I wouldn’t have missed that scene for all the
dinners in Christendom. Heavens! what a nature there is in that little
girl!”