LILITH’S FIRST PLACE
My life you ask for? You must know
My little life can ne’er be told;
It has been full of joy and woe,
Though I am but a few years old.
_A. A. Proctor._
A week went by without bringing any answer to Lilith’s application.
She scarcely expected to receive one, indeed. She was becoming inured to
disappointment, for, in fact, she had known nothing else in connection
with her efforts to obtain employment.
She was beginning to despair of success in this line of enterprise, and
even to contemplate the possibility of remaining with Mrs. Downie for an
indefinite time, and of becoming useful to her in some good way.
Lilith thanked Heaven that the rigor of her desolate doom was tempered
with mercy in the person of Aunt Sophie. She was beginning to love the
sweet old lady, with that satisfying affection which is born of esteem
and perfect trust. Lilith knew that whatever evil fortune should be in
store for her, it would not be the loss of Aunt Sophie’s motherly care
and protection.
She knew if she were to become quite penniless, and should be stricken
with a long and tedious illness, that Aunt Sophie would never permit her
to be sent to a public hospital, but would nurse her tenderly and
skillfully at home.
And this was the dear woman at whom some people—not many, to the credit
of human nature, be it said—had sneered, as too plain, homely and
ignorant in looks, speech and manner, ever to have been fit for a
minister’s wife, though she was a minister’s widow.
These people little know that all the spare money of the two
widows—William Downie’s mother and Sophie Wood’s mother—had gone by
mutual agreement to educate Willy, leaving Sophie to get what benefit
she could out of the village school, which could never cure her of the
quaint, old-fashioned, ungrammatical talk she had learned at her
mother’s knee and used all her life.
As for Lilith, she loved this homely speech, for it reminded her of her
own country neighborhood, and she loved every peculiarity of the dear
unselfish creature—even the carelessness of her dress, whose only
redeeming quality was its perfect cleanliness, and the disorder of her
fine, thin gray hair, which was as well disheveled as if it had been
attended to by a fashionable hairdresser—because all these revealed in
the active, industrious woman, not laziness or idleness, but utter
self-forgetfulness in the constant service of others.
But she was growing old, and Lilith wondered if in the failure of all
her efforts to obtain employment, and in the possible necessity of her
having to remain with Aunt Sophie, whether she might not help her in
some substantial manner; as to learn to keep the house, do the
marketing, cast up the accounts and pay the bills.
It was Lilith’s inspiration always to be useful.
It was late on Saturday evening that Lilith was sitting alone in the
front parlor, all her fellow-lodgers being absent from the house or at
work in their rooms, when the postman, on his last round for the
night—and the week—rang the door bell.
It happened that Aunt Sophie answered the summons. There was a little
parley at the door, and finally the old lady came in with a letter in
her hand, which she held out to Lilith, saying:
“Here, my dear, see if this is for you. The carrier is waiting to know.
You see it is directed to the house all right, and the number and street
all right, but the name is all wrong, if it is for you; though it is so
like your name that it must be for you.”
Lilith took the letter and looked at the superscription:
“Elizabeth Wyvil.”
“Yes, Aunt Sophie, this is for me, and I think it must be in answer to
my application,” she said.
“Very well, my dear; I will go and tell the man,” replied the old lady,
as she went again to the front door to explain the case and dismiss the
postman.
“Now then, dearie, is the answer favorable?” she inquired, as she
returned and took a seat beside Lilith, who sat at the centre table
reading her letter by the light of the gasalier.
“It is favorable; if it were not, you know, I should never have received
it. Advertisers, I suppose, do not take the trouble to write
rejections,” replied Lilith.
“No, I reckon not, especially as in every case I have heard there are
hundreds of applications for one place. Well, dearie, has the widow lady
decided to engage you?”
“No, not decided; she has only appointed an interview with me on Monday
at twelve noon, at the Constellation Hotel.”
“Oh!”
“But that, you know, is very hopeful.”
“Yes, I reckon it is. Well, honey, I hope you will find her a good, kind
friend; but who is she, my dearie? Ah! here they come!”
Several of the boarders entered the parlor, and cut short the speech of
Aunt Sophie.
Lilith left the room and went up to Mrs. Downie’s chamber to read over
her letter again.
It was very short, merely acknowledging the receipt of the applicant’s
letter, and asking for a personal interview at the time and place
already specified.
Of course Lilith would keep the appointment and accept the position if
it should be offered to her.
But, she asked herself, would she be justified in leaving the country,
without first informing her husband and giving him the opportunity of
seeking a reconciliation with her, should he desire to do so?
“I never loved you. I married you only to please my dying father. In a
very few hours I shall leave this house, never to return while you
desecrate it with your presence!”
These words came back to her in all their fierce, bitter, scornful
cruelty. “Came back to her?” They had never left her. They smouldered in
her memory always, and only blazed up in a fiery heat at the very
thought of seeking any notice from the husband who had contemptuously
cast her out; but whom—oh, woe—she still so deeply, so painfully loved.
No! he had turned her off, and she must not call his attention to
herself in any manner. She must let him go his way, untroubled by her.
As for herself, she could live—even in pain and sorrow—until she should
be called away to the land of peace.
Lilith had ample time and opportunity for reflection between that
Saturday night and the Monday noon when she was to wait on her possible
future employer. So it was after mature deliberation that she decided to
enter the service of the lady advertiser, supposing that she should be
permitted to do so.
On Monday morning she set out to walk to the hotel. She arrived a few
minutes before the appointed hour and sent up her card by a porter.
While she waited in the reception-room, many questions arose in her
mind.
Who was this German baroness who had advertised for a lady traveling
companion, and had appointed this meeting with her, and with a view to
engaging her services?
Was she old, sickly, melancholy, ill-tempered and exacting, as Aunt
Sophie, in her tender anxiety for Lilith’s happiness, had feared that
she might be?
Or was she young, handsome and fashionable?
Would the companion be required to nurse an aged invalid, or to amuse a
young beauty?
While Lilith was anxiously considering these questions, the door opened
and a little old gentleman, dressed in clerical black, and having a
little, round, gray head like a silver ball and a fresh, rosy face like
a baby’s, came bowing into the room, walked up to Lilith, and bowing
politely, said:
“Mademoiselle, Madame la Baronne desires that you will ascend to her
apartments.”
Lilith arose, trembling, bowed, and followed her conductor to the
elevator, which in a few seconds brought them to the second floor.
Here the old gentleman took her out, along a handsomely furnished hall
to a pair of folding black walnut doors, beside which sat a servant out
of livery, who arose and opened them for the visitor to enter.
Lilith found herself in a spacious apartment, whose first impression was
of gloom and splendor. Rich, heavy curtains vailed three lofty front
windows; but between their openings long needles of light struck here
and there on glowing crimson velvet, or gilded cornices or framework,
tall mirrors, elegant vases, filled with rare and fragrant exotics,
glimpses of rare pictures, statues, stands of every graceful form, and
seats of every luxurious make, and under all a carpet that
“Stole all noises from the feet.”
Shadow flecked with gleams of splendor; silence softly moved by the
sighing of an invisible Eolian harp; cool air just slightly fragrant
with the delicate breath of fresh, living flowers.
A pleasing awe, as of entering a chapel of the olden time, of incense
and artistic decoration, crept over Lilith.
As her eyes became accustomed to the religious gloom, she saw the figure
of a lady rise slowly from one of the reclining chairs and stand waiting
to receive her—a lady of majestic beauty and grace, whose perfect form
was clothed from head to foot in a closely fitting, rich black velvet
trained dress, without trimming or ornament of any kind; and whose
beautiful head was crowned with an aureole of golden hair, which her
widow’s cap but half concealed.
Lilith approached and courtesied involuntarily as to a queen, so much
did the grand beauty of this lady impress her imagination.
“Madame, I have the honor to bring you mademoiselle,” said the old
gentleman, bowing.
Lilith courtesied again, and glanced up at the lady’s face—a beautiful
face—somehow suggestive of the surroundings, shadow and splendor—perfect
features, a brilliant blonde complexion, dark, glorious eyes, and
golden-hued hair, the radiant beauty of the whole enhanced by the dead
black of the mourning robe.
“Le Grange, you may retire,” said the lady.
And the old gentleman, with another bow, withdrew.
The lady resumed her seat, and by a courteous motion of her hand invited
Lilith to take another near her.
“You are much younger than I expected to find you, Miss Wyvil,” said the
lady, when both were seated.
“I am not Miss Wyvil, madame,” said Lilith, who, since her marriage, had
always written herself Elizabeth Wyvil Hereward, but who, having been
forbidden by her husband to retain his name, meant to obey him by
dropping it, yet who wished to avoid deception in representing herself
to be an unmarried girl.
The lady looked somewhat surprised, gazed wistfully at the speaker for a
few seconds, and then said:
“You are very young to be a widow.”
“I am nearly eighteen, madame,” said Lilith, without deeming it
necessary to enter into farther explanations—for was she not, indeed, “a
widow in fate, if not in fact?”
“And you look even younger than that. When did you lose——” the lady
began to question, but seeing Lilith trembling and turning pale, she
desisted, and after a little pause she turned the conversation.
“Mrs. Wyvil, I have had about two hundred answers to my advertisement
for a companion. These have taken myself and my private secretary,
Monsieur Le Grange, about a week to get through with examining, although
at about two-thirds of the letters we only glanced to see that they were
written by utterly incompetent persons, who could not, indeed, write a
fair, legible hand or compose a grammatical sentence. Of the other third
we selected about a dozen persons, whom we saw, in turn, by appointment
during the week. None of them—not one of them—suited me. Several were
evidently in bad health, fitter for an infirmary than for any other
place. Several others, though they were fair English scholars, had
little or no knowledge of other languages; and the others were so
unlovely in looks and manner that I could not think of one of them as a
companion. Your letter was one of the last I received, and you are the
very last with whom I have appointed an interview. Your letter made a
favorable impression on me, and your appearance has deepened it,”
concluded madame, who had evidently given these details only to afford
Lilith the opportunity of recovering her composure.
Lilith bowed in respectful acknowledgment.
“The objection, as yet, seems to be your youth,” continued the lady.
“As another in my case said: ‘It is a fault that must mend daily,’
madame,” replied Lilith.
The lady smiled. She had a rare, brilliant, beautiful smile.
“You are apt at repartee and quotation,” she said. “But now, about your
knowledge of modern languages. I can see that you have all the other
requirements.”
“I am familiar with the languages mentioned in your advertisement,
madame, and I have testimonials from professors to that effect.”
“I would rather judge for myself. You will find writing materials on
that table near your left hand. Translate and write out for me there, in
the languages required, this text, which is the anchor of hope for the
Christian:
“‘For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that
whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting
life.’”
Lilith went and sat down at the table, took a sheet of note paper and
wrote slowly, and with some pauses for recollection and selection, until
she had completed her task, and filled a page of note paper, which she
brought and gave to the lady.
She smiled, bowed, and read as follows:
“Car Dieu a tellement aime le monde, qu’il a donne son Fils unique, afin
que quiconque, croit en lui ne perisse point, mais, qu’il la vie
eternelle.
“Perciocche Iddio ha tanta amato il mando, c’egli ha dato il suo
unigenito Figliuola acciocche chiunque crede in lui non perisca, ma
abbia eita eterna.
“Porque de tal manera amo Deos al mundo que hayo dado, a su Hijo
unigenito; para que todo aquel que en el creyere, no ce pierda, mas
tenga vida eterna.”
“I think these will do, Mrs. Wyvil. I am not a very accomplished
linguist, but I will submit these specimens to Professor Le Grange for
his opinion,” said the lady, as she touched a golden timbre at her side.
The door opened, and the man whom Lilith had seen in the hall appeared.
“Request Monsieur Le Grange to come here,” said the lady.
The man disappeared, and was succeeded by the little, round-bodied
Frenchman.
“Monsieur, will you have the goodness to glance over these translations,
and give me your opinion of them?” inquired the lady, handing the paper
to the professor, who bowed—he spent half his time in the presence of
his employer in bowing—looked over the page, then read it carefully, and
returned it, saying:
“The translations are correct, madame.”
“Thank you, monsieur. That will do.”
The professor bowed and retired.
“Now, Mrs. Wyvil, there remains but to ask for your references—a mere
matter of form, my dear, for believe me I am very favorably inclined
towards you.”
Lilith’s face flushed as she answered:
“I have such testimonials as I brought from college at the end of my
last and graduating term. I have no other referees, except a lady of
Baltimore, who gave me permission to use her name. She is a Mrs.
Ponsonby, of Calvert Street, in that city, and she is frequently in New
York here, where she has a married daughter, Mrs. Saxony, of —— Street.”
“Oh! I know them both—mother and daughter. I have met them in Washington
and at Newport. They will do quite well,” said the lady, cordially.
“But, madame,” said Lilith, as the painful flush deepened in her cheek,
“I don’t know Mrs. Saxony at all, and very little of Mrs. Ponsonby
except that—that—that—she took me up on faith—and——”
“That does not matter. I can trust Mrs. Ponsonby; and, my dear, I can
trust your candid, truthful face. Are you equally satisfied with me?”
“Oh, madame!” said Lilith, deprecatingly.
“Then we have only to speak of salary—twelve hundred dollars a year,
paid quarterly. Are the terms satisfactory?”
“Oh, madame, they are very munificent. The salary is very much larger
than I expected.”
“It is not too large for one of your accomplishments, who is, besides,
required to quit her country—to expatriate herself, perhaps, for years.”
Lilith made no reply. She was beginning to tremble at the prospect of an
indefinite exile.
“I expect to sail on the first of June. Can you be ready by that time?”
Lilith paused to consider. Should she take this plunge?
“I never loved you.... I shall leave this house, never to return while
you desecrate it with your presence.” As these stinging words arose in
her memory, she roused herself and answered, firmly:
“Yes, madame, I shall be quite ready.”
“Very well, my dear. Your duties will be very light—almost merely
nominal. I wanted a young, pretty, accomplished and agreeable companion.
I did not expect to find one. But I have found one in you. I will not
detain you longer at present. Come in at this time to-morrow, if you
please, and we will talk further,” said the lady, rising.
“One moment, if you will pardon me, madame, I have not yet the honor of
knowing the name of the lady to whom my services are pledged,” said
Lilith.
“Now is that possible? Well, my dear, if you were better acquainted with
the world you would know one thing about me—that I am a very
unbusinesslike individual,” said the lady, as she placed a card in the
hands of her companion.
Lilith bowed and read: BARONESS VON BRUYIN.