IN MY LADY’S CHAMBER
“Patterson! Patterson!! Pat-ter--son!!!”
The cane in the old lady’s hand came down with a thump. It signified:
“Attention!”
For a moment or more there was no response to the summons. Then the
irate owner of the cane bounced out of her chair and rushed about the
room, in a half-frantic manner. She picked up one article only to toss
it aside and seize another; but all the time, she tightly clutched the
newspaper she held. In her excitement she had once half-folded the
paper and had then drawn her thin fingers down its folds as if to make
it into a staff or mammoth taper.
Presently, the door opened and a stout woman entered this richly
furnished bedchamber, whereupon the old lady rushed toward her and
fairly flourished the paper in the newcomer’s face, who was not a whit
disturbed by the onslaught and calmly advised:
“There, Mrs. Sinclair, that will do. I wouldn’t go for to put myself in
a rage if I was you. You’d far better sit down and take your drops.”
“Patterson, where were you?”
“Eating my tea.”
“You’re always ‘eating your tea.’ I wonder how you manage the feat.
It’s one beyond my wit.”
“Yes, ma’am. I dare say it is.”
“Patterson, you are impertinent.”
“Not meanin’ it, ma’am, I’m sure.”
“No. You never do mean anything. That’s the worst of you. If I hadn’t
grown so accustomed to you--You know what would happen, I reckon.”
“Yes, ma’am. You’ve often told me,” answered the maid, still
undisturbed.
“Well, _I_ generally _do_ mean something. Just now, it’s something
which, probably, will astonish even you--if that is possible.”
“Yes, ma’am. I think I could be astonished if I tried.”
“Huh! I doubt it. But--try. It would be such a novel sensation. Why,
woman alive, if it weren’t for my sensations I’d be as wooden-y as you
are. Patterson, I’m going to Albuquerque.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh! you exasperating creature! But--I’ve just come from there. A few
weeks ago, on our way back from California. That’s the name of that
curious old town that’s so antique on one side and so horribly new on
the other. Yes, I’m going to Al-bu-quer-que. Why don’t you ask me what
for?”
“You’ll be sure to tell me, directly, ma’am.”
“Humph! You _are_ impertinent. I have always known it. I consider you
so when you don’t get excited.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“No, you’re not. Not a bit sorry. You didn’t get excited even when I
told you I’d bought our tickets for a trip around the world. Nothing on
the trip excited you. Even when I talked anarchy in Russia and had to
keep my tongue so still afterward. You’re not excited now, yet--if I
chose--I could say that which would make even your smooth hair stand up
and ruffle itself.”
“I dare say so, ma’am.”
“Patterson, am I a happy woman?”
“I’m afraid not, ma’am.”
“Haven’t I done a lot of good in my life?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve had bitter sorrows. They’ve made me--disagreeable, eh? Well,
listen. Once a man borrowed my money and died without paying it.
Because of that debt, which I half-forgot, and their silly notions of
honor his family have always been poor. I didn’t know they worried
so--until it was too late. Then I let it go on. It was less trouble
than the other way. And exertion is good for--other people. Patterson!
leave tidying this room and sit down.”
“Yes, ma’am. It often is ‘too late’ in this world.”
“Why--Patterson! I say, leave tidying the room. You’re always at it
when you aren’t ‘eating your tea,’ and I’ve something to tell you,
Patterson! _Sit down!_ I bid you. I’ve that to tell you that will, that
must, wake you up at last.”
“Yes, ma’am,” and something in her mistress’s manner did catch the
attention of this faithful old servant, of long service and short
speech.
“Good Patterson--Do you remember Mary?”
Then, indeed, did the “worm turn.”
“Remember Mary? How can you ask me that? Wasn’t I her nurse? Wasn’t she
the sweetest girl who ever lived? Didn’t I love her like my own soul?
Ah! indeed, but I do remember Mary. It was I who dressed her for her
wedding, which you’d forbidden. _Do I--remember--Mary?_”
“There, there. That was fine. Magnificent. I thought there was fire in
you somewhere, if a body only had gunpowder enough about her to set it
flashing. Well--I, too, remember Mary. Ah! Patterson! how well!”
Only one who knew the erratic Mrs. Sinclair, as Patterson knew her,
could have understood that sudden change in her manner which bespoke
a broken heart. “Mary.” The never forgotten, the always beloved, the
forever mourned. In that love and in that self-reproachful memory, lay
the secret of this strange and restless life.
The little old lady, whose face was wizened and wan, dropped into her
chair and Patterson went and stood beside her.
“There, ma’am. I wouldn’t. It’s all past and gone. There’s still a
heaven where you can meet her, even though, as you said, it’s too late
for this world.”
Mrs. Sinclair bobbed her head, then looked up with a gleam in her eye.
“It was you who said that, Patterson.”
“Was it, ma’am? I don’t remember that.”
“Listen. When I came home from the Pacific, as usual, I got out at all
the stations to rest myself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“At one of them, called Tuttle, which was just a man or two, a
water-tank and a house, with a few other folks thrown in--at this
wretched spot I saw--two children.”
“So you said, ma’am.”
“Excuse me, I said nothing of the kind. I never mentioned it.
_Somebody_ said they were Indian captives, just rescued. When I looked
at them something went through my heart like a shot. Those children
made me think of Mary. They had eyes like Mary’s. And--_Patterson, sit
down_. You’ll need support now.”
Patterson immediately dropped upon a lounge, but continued to dust
little portions of the furniture near, with a silk rag she pulled from
her pocket and went nowhere without. But she suddenly ceased her labor
and--waked up entirely!
“Hear this Associated Press dispatch. I was right. Those little
‘captives’ I saw are my Mary’s children. It all fits together like a
sliced puzzle--when once you start it right. Hark!”
Then in her clear tones, still unimpaired by age, and in an excitement
that was now really healthful, Mrs. Sinclair read to her old attendant
the same account of the famous “Discovery” which the hospital nurse had
read to her convalescing patient.
She read it once at almost breakneck speed, then again, more slowly;
and at its conclusion, Patterson stood beside the door leading into the
dressing room, impatient to be gone.
“Patterson, where are you? What are you about? _Why don’t you--sit
down?_ Where can you be going in such frightful haste? Eh? What did
you say?”
“To pack our trunks. _I’m_ going to Albuquerque.”
“Ha! Wide awake at last! You’re right. _We_ are going by the first
express, to Mary’s children at Albuquerque!”