Chapter 21

GHOSTS OF THE PAST.

�Oh, it comes o�er my memory
As doth the raven o�er the infected house.�
--Shakespeare, Othello.

No wonder Floy found the house so quiet. Madame�s dressing-room, adjoining the one where she sat, was tenantless, the lady herself sleeping soundly in the bedroom beyond, Frisky curled up by her side, and Mary dozing on a sofa near by, while Kathleen had locked up her kitchen and gone out upon some household errand.

As the clock on the mantel struck ten Madame awoke.

�Mary!� she called plaintively, �Mary, why did you let me sleep so long?�

�Because if I had not you would have reproved me for waking you,� returned the maid, shaking off her drowsiness and assuming a sitting posture upon the sofa.

�Mary, you are impolite, not to say unkind and disrespectful, to answer me so,� whimpered the mistress, applying a handkerchief to her eyes. �You don�t appreciate all I do for you. It isn�t every girl that can live in the luxury you do—fed and clothed like a lady—and lay by her five or six dollars every week too.�

�That�s true enough, Madame; but I�m sure I earn it all, and you know as well as I that you couldn�t get anybody else to serve you as much to your liking for twice the money. What will you be pleased to have for your breakfast?�

�Nothing,� returned Madame, sobbing behind her handkerchief.

�How will you have it prepared?� asked Mary with unmoved gravity.

Madame burst into a laugh. �I�ll have a broiled sweet-bread, hot buttered muffins, coffee, and marmalade.�

�Shall I prepare it?�

�No, ring for Kathleen.�

Mary touched the bell.

�What gown will Madame be pleased to wear?� she asked, bringing a basin of water and a towel to the bedside.

�That blue silk wrapper. Has Mrs. Sharp come?�

�No, but she has sent a young girl to work for you. I left her in the sewing-room making your skirts.�

�The top o� the mornin� to yees, Madame!� cried Kathleen, coming in fresh and rosy from her walk. �I hope ye�re aisy, an� feel like atin� a big breakfast. Ye breathe aisier nor ye do sometimes.�

Madame was seized at that moment with a wheezing asthmatic cough.

�I had a bad night,� she said pantingly, �and have no breath to spare. Tell her what to get me, Mary.�

Thirty years ago Madame Le Conte was a slender, graceful girl, with a clear olive complexion, delicate features, ruby lips, bright black eyes, and lively, engaging manners; now she was an overgrown, gross-looking, middle-aged, or rather elderly, woman, immensely fat, tortured with asthma, gout and sundry kindred ailments, dull, heavy, and uninteresting, nervous, irritable, childishly unreasonable and changeable, full of whims and fancies—a wretched burden to herself and all about her.

Rolling in wealth, she constantly sighed over the sad fact that there were none of her own kith and kin to inherit it, and that the service rendered her was not the service of love, but merely of self-interest.

Mary, her personal attendant, had been with her many years, thoroughly understood her ways, and knew how to minister to her wants as no one else did; and quite aware of the fact, sometimes took advantage of it to scold her mistress when much tried by her unreasonable demands, threatening to leave, and occasionally even refusing to obey orders, when Madame would angrily dismiss her, but on being seemingly taken at her word, would relent, burst into tears and pathetic entreaties, and buy a reconciliation with fair promises, increased wages, or expensive presents.

Madame wore a cork hand; how she had come to be deprived of her good right hand no one knew or dared ask, for she was extremely sensitive in regard to her loss, and would not endure the slightest allusion to it. Mary removed the artificial limb at night and replaced it in the morning without question or comment, and made it part of her business to divert the idle curiosity of others from this deformity of her mistress. This she did without waiting for instructions; for Mary had a heart, and often pitied the poor rich cripple from its very depths.

�Yes, she had a bad night, so don�t make her talk any more,� she said to Kathleen as she carefully laved her mistress�s face and hand. �She�ll have a broiled sweet-bread—�

�No, no, let it be stewed; I�ll have it stewed,� interrupted the Madame.

Mary completed the bill of fare as given by her mistress a few moments before, and Kathleen turned to go, but had scarcely reached the door when she was called back.

�Waffles, waffles, Katty,� wheezed her mistress.

�Yes, ma�am; and muffins too?�

�No—yes, yes. Go, and make haste; I�m starved.�

Kathleen had reached the head of the stairs when she was again recalled, and tea and cream-toast substituted for coffee, muffins, and waffles; then the Madame thought she would prefer chocolate, and finally decided that all three should be prepared, toast and muffins also, and she would take her choice.

Even Kathleen�s almost imperturbable good-nature was somewhat tried. Her face clouded for a moment, but all was sunshine ere she reached her kitchen again, where she flew nimbly about, executing the latest orders of her capricious mistress, saying laughingly to herself:

�Sure an� it�s me that �ud better make haste afore she has time to change her mind again; for it won�t be long it�ll take her to do that same.�

There was a knock at the side gate, and Kathleen flew to open it, the rose on her cheek deepening and her pretty blue eyes dancing with delight.

�It�s only me, Kathleen, me darlint!� cried a cheery voice.

�Sure and don�t I know your knock, Rory?� she responded, drawing back the bolt and admitting a strapping young Irishman. �But come into the kitchen; I�ve got the Madame�s breakfast over the fire, and can�t stop here to spake two words to ye,� she added, running back, he following close at her heels.

�Has the Madame sint down her orders yet?� he asked, sitting down beside the fire and watching the girl�s movements with admiring eyes.

�No; she�s just up, and I�m thinking the horses�ll be likely to rest till after dinner anyhow, for she�s got a dressmaker at work makin� up that illegant silk she bought yesterday, and she�ll be wantin� to get fit, you know.�

�Av coorse. Well, I�m contint, since me wages goes on all the same, an� maybe I�ll have the more time to sit here with you.�

�Maybe so, and maybe not,� said Kathleen, turning her muffins; �they�ll maybe be wantin� me up there to run the machine.�

�I wish it was to make a silk gown for yersilf, jewel; the Madame�s got a plinty now, and all the fine dresses as iver was made couldn�t make her look half as purty as you do in that nate calico. Things isn�t avenly divided in this world, Kathleen, mavourneen.�

�Sure now, Rory, the good things isn�t all on one side, afther all,� returned Kathleen, laughing. �Wouldn�t the Madame give all her fine dresses, and silver and goold too, for my health and strength or yours?�

�That she would; or for your illegant figger and purty skin that�s just like lilies and roses, and your eyes that shine brighter than her diamonds.�

�Whist!� cried Kathleen, hastily lifting her coffee-pot from the fire just as Mary opened the dining-room door with the query:

�Is breakfast ready?�

�Everything�s done to a turn,� said Kathleen. �And here�s Rory ready to carry it up, if ye like.�

�No, she has changed her mind; she�ll eat in the breakfast-room. Rory�s to bring her down in the elevator, and take her up again in it when she�s done.�

When Madame had duly discussed her breakfast, and recovered breath after her ascent to her private apartments, Floy was summoned to her presence.

The young girl came quietly into the dressing-room, where the lady reclined in a large easy chair.

Madame started at sight of her, uttering a low exclamation.

�Who are you?� she asked, her voice trembling a little as she spoke, �and what is your name?�

�I am one of Mrs. Sharp�s apprentices, and my name is Florence Kemper. I have cut and basted the lining of your dress; shall I fit it on you now?�

�Yes—no; Mary will put it on me and see if it is all right. Mary knows my ways.�

Madame�s tone was still agitated, and she seemed flurried and uneasy under Floy�s glance.

The girl noted it, and with true delicacy turned her eyes in another direction while Mary performed the required service.

Madame stood up before the glass. �I think it fits, Mary, doesn�t it?�

�I think not quite. Shall Miss Kemper look at it?�

Madame assented, and Floy�s nimble fingers were presently busied about her, she meanwhile earnestly regarding the reflection of the young face in the glass.

It seemed to have far more interest for her than the fit of the new gown, though ordinarily she was eager as a child in regard to any new article of dress.

�Does it satisfy you now, Madame?� asked Floy at length.

The Madame started as if waking from a dream, glanced at the image of her own portly figure, and responded with a hasty �Yes, yes, it is all right! Child, you look tired, wretchedly tired—almost ill. You must rest. Sit down in that chair, and Mary shall bring you some refreshments.�

�Many thanks, but I have no time for rest; these are busy days for dressmakers,� Floy answered, with a sad smile, thinking of the piles of dress patterns still untouched, and garments in various stages of completion, in Mrs. Sharp�s work-room.

�Sit down!� repeated the Madame, with an imperious gesture; �I am used to obedience from all in this house. Just slip my wrapper on again, Mary, and then go to my closet and bring out all the good things you can find.�

Mary obeyed, nothing loath, for she too felt drawn to the young stranger, and Floy presently had spread before her a tempting variety of cakes, confectionery, and tropical fruits.

In vain she protested that she was not hungry; Madame would not be content till she had seen her eat an orange and a bunch of grapes, and put a paper of candies into her pocket.

For the rest of the day the Madame insisted upon occupying an easy chair in the sewing-room, where, with Frisky curled up in her lap and the latest novel in her hand, she furtively watched Floy�s movements, and when she spoke, listened with ill-concealed eagerness to every tone of her voice.

Floy, whose thoughts were far away, was scarcely conscious of this strange interest taken in her, but Mary noted it with wonder and growing curiosity shared by Kathleen, who had been, as she anticipated, summoned to the work of running the machine. They telegraphed each other with nods, winks, and smiles, neither the Madame nor Floy perceiving.

�The sun has set, and it is growing dark,� remarked the Madame, closing her book and breaking in on a long silence. �You are straining your eyes in your efforts to thread that needle, Miss Kemper. Come, put up your work and rest a little, while Mary and Kathleen prepare our tea.�

�Thank you, Madame,� said Floy, �but Mrs. Sharp would not approve of so early a rest, and if I may have a light I will go on with the work.�

�Tut! tut! I�m mistress here, and I�ll have no such overwork!� was the quick, imperative rejoinder. �I�ll make it right with Mrs. Sharp, paying for the time all the same.�

Floy submitted, repeating her thanks, for to the over-strained eyes and weary frame a little rest was most refreshing.

The work was neatly folded and laid aside. Mary and Kathleen tidied the room, gathering up the shreds of silk and lining, and putting things in place; then receiving orders from Madame for a delicious little supper to be served in her dressing-room for Floy and herself, they went down to prepare it.

A bright fire in an open grate filled the room with ruddy light, and Floy was glad that the Madame refused to have any other for the present.

Very sad, very quiet the young girl felt, thinking of Espy and his sorrow; and taking, in obedience to her employer�s direction, an easy chair by the window, she gazed out musingly upon the lake, whose dark, restless waters were now faintly illumined by a line of silver light along the eastern horizon.

�The moon�s about to rise,� wheezed her companion. �I like to watch it as it seems to come up out of the water. Did you ever see it?�

�No, Madame,� returned the girl, smiling slightly, �Mrs. Sharp�s apprentices have little time or opportunity to observe the beauties of nature.�

�But Sundays—you do not work then?�

�No, Madame, but they find me weary enough to go very early to bed.�

�Ah, too bad, too bad! But look, look! what a shame to be deprived of so lovely a sight as that!� cried the Madame as the queen of night suddenly emerged from her watery bed, flooding the whole scene with mellow radiance.

�It is very beautiful,� murmured Floy, sighing softly to herself.

How often in the happy days gone by she and Espy had enjoyed the moonlight together!

�I would not stay there if I were you,� pursued the Madame. �Why should you stay where you are so badly treated? Why should any one?�

�Because, Madame, it is there I must gain the knowledge that is to enable me to earn my bread.�

�A hard thing for a lady to do. Any one can see you are a lady—your speech, your manners, your appearance, all tell it. But, ah well, you have youth, good looks, health! and though I�m rich, I�d be only too glad to exchange with you,� and in her wheezing tones, and with many a pause for breath, the Madame went on to give a long account of her sufferings by day and by night.

Floy listened with a patient attention and sincere sympathy such as the Madame, in her loneliness, was little accustomed to.

�It must be very dreadful to have so many ailments,� she said feelingly. �I don�t know how I could bear your difficulty of breathing even, without any of the others.�

The Madame started, sat upright, and looked earnestly at the girl, while tears gathered in her eyes.

�Your voice is like a half-forgotten strain of music,� she said, sighing; �and your face—ah, it seems as if I must have seen it in the long ago, the happy time when I was young and life full of sunshine and flowers. Alas, child!� she added, sinking back upon her cushions again, �as the years roll on how the sunlight gives place to clouds and darkness, and the flowers fade and die! would that I could be young again!�

�Were you always happy in your youthful days, Madame?�

There were tears in the low, sweet voice that put the question.

�No, no; indeed I believe I sometimes thought myself quite wretched!� exclaimed the Madame; �but I see now what a fool I was.�

�Supper is ready, ladies,� announced Mary, throwing open the door of communication with the dressing-room. �Shall I wheel you in, Madame?�

With a peevish reply in the negative the Madame rose and waddled to the table, preceded by Frisky, for whom a chair had been placed at her right hand.

Floy was invited to the seat opposite her hostess, and, conscious of being a lady, accepted it with no feeling of surprise that it was accorded her. In fact, her thoughts were again far away, and scarcely to be recalled by the tempting nature of the repast or the magnificence of the solid silver and rare old china.

Fortunately she was not called upon to talk or to listen, as Frisky was taking his supper after the same manner in which he had eaten his breakfast, Kathleen attending to him while Mary waited upon the table.

The Madame ate and drank enormously, paying no heed to an occasional reminder from Mary that she would have to suffer for her over-indulgence.

�You are a cruel creature! you would deprive me of the only pleasure left me in life!� she at length exclaimed passionately, as the girl almost absolutely refused to help her for the sixth time to fried oysters.

�Madame,� replied Mary firmly, �you know the doctor has forbidden them altogether, and that an hour or two from now you�ll be abusing me for letting you have any at all.�

At that the Madame rose, angrily pushed back her chair and retired in a pet to her room.