Mrs. Overtheways Remembrances | Page 7

he might see truth. When young she must have been exquisitely beautiful, Ida thought. She was lovely still.
In due time Nurse brought up tea, and Ida could hardly believe that her fancies were realized at last; indeed more than realized--for no bread and treacle diminished the dignity of the entertainment; and Nurse would as soon have thought of carrying off the Great Mogul on his cushions, as of putting Mrs. Overtheway and her chair into the corner.
But there is a limit even to the space of time for which one can enjoy tea and buttered toast. The tray was carried off, the hyacinth put in its place, and Ida curled herself up in an easy chair on one side of the fire, Mrs. Overtheway being opposite.
"You see I am over the way still," laughed the little old lady. "Now, tell me all about the primroses." So Ida told everything, and apologized for her awkward speeches to the housekeeper.
"I don't know your name yet," said she.
"Call me Mrs. Overtheway still, my dear, if you please," said the little old lady. "I like it."
So Ida was no wiser on this score.
"I was so sorry to hear that you had been made ill on my account," said Mrs. Overtheway. "I have been many times to ask after you, and to-night I asked leave to come to tea. I wish I could do something to amuse you, you poor little invalid. I know you must feel dull."
Ida's cheeks flushed.
"If you would only tell me a story," she said, "I do so like hearing Nurse's stories. At least she has only one, but I like it. It isn't exactly a story either, but it is about what happened in her last place. But I am rather tired of it. There's Master Henry--I like him very much, he was always in mischief; and there's Miss Adelaide, whose hair curled naturally--at least with a damp brush--I like her; but I don't have much of them; for Nurse generally goes off about a quarrel she had with the cook, and I never could tell what they quarrelled about, but Nurse said cook was full of malice and deceitfulness, so she left. I'm rather tired of it."
"What sort of a story shall I tell you?" asked Mrs. Overtheway.
"A true one, I think," said Ida. "Something that happened to you yourself, if you please. You must remember a great many things, being so old."
And Ida said this in simple good-faith, believing it to be a compliment.
"It is quite true," said Mrs. Overtheway, "that one remembers many things at the end of a long life, and that they are often those things which happened a long while ago, and which are sometimes so slight in themselves that it is wonderful that they should not have been forgotten. I remember, for instance, when I was about your age, an incident that occurred which gave me an intense dislike to a special shade of brown satin. I hated it then, and at the end of more than half a century, I hate it still. The thing in itself was a mere folly; the people concerned in it have been dead for many years, and yet at the present time I should find considerable difficulty in seeing the merits of a person who should dress in satin of that peculiar hue.
"What was it?" asked Ida.
"It was not amber satin, and it was not snuff-coloured satin; it was one of the shades of brown known by the name of feuille-morte, or dead-leaf colour. It is pretty in itself, and yet I dislike it."
"How funny," said Ida, wriggling in the arm-chair with satisfaction. "Do tell me about it."
"But it is not funny in the least, unfortunately," said Mrs. Overtheway, laughing. "It isn't really a story, either. It is not even like Nurse's experiences. It is only a strong remembrance of my childhood, that isn't worth repeating, and could hardly amuse you."
"Indeed, indeed, it would," said Ida. "I like the sound of it. Satin is so different from cooks."
Mrs. Overtheway laughed.
"Still, I wish I could think of something more entertaining," said she.
"Please tell me that," said Ida, earnestly; "I would rather hear something about you than anything else."
There was no resisting this loving argument. Ida felt she had gained her point, and curled herself up into a listening attitude accordingly. The hyacinth stood in solemn sweetness as if it were listening also; and Mrs. Overtheway, putting her little feet upon the fender to warm, began the story of ----

MRS. MOSS.
"It did not move my grief, to see The trace of human step departed, Because the garden was deserted, The blither place for me!
"Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken Hath childhood 'twixt the sun and sward: We draw the moral afterward-- We feel the gladness then."
E. BARRETT